


Mix & Match

by SuperClark_BatBruce



Series: SuperBat Universe [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: (He is), Bruce is such a dick, Canon-Typical Violence, Clark can't shake hands properly and Bruce hates it, Clark thinks he's funny, Clark's adorable, Cuddling, Explosions, Fights, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mark tho..., Rescue, only the last chapter is a bit smutty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-06-08 22:57:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6878266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperClark_BatBruce/pseuds/SuperClark_BatBruce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark meets Bruce, then Superman saves Bruce, then Batman saves Clark, then Superman saves Bruce again, then Batman and Superman fight together and then against each other, then Clark and Bruce get into trouble together and Bruce has to save Clark and then....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Round One

**Author's Note:**

> This is co-written with the lovely sonxfkrypton on tumblr. I'm doyoubleedxyouwill :) I put a little - between each section to delineate where each wrote. Hopefully I didn't mess it up.

This beat was normally exclusively Cat Grant’s, shmoozing with the rich and famous and everyone shiny enough to dance with them. Clark Kent was decidedly not one of them, even in his most expensive ill-fitting suit. It was a strike of desperation, one he’d just managed to inch pass Lois, but only just barely. Bruce Wayne was notoriously good at escaping interviews. Considering what his company was doing with Bruno Mannheim, who liked to consider himself an ‘ _upstanding businessman.’_ Clark knew better, as did most anyone with common sense, but the evidence never seemed to stick with the mafia boss. 

And unfortunately, it didn’t look like Mr. Wayne had common sense.

Word was Mr. Wayne was in Metropolis and would be doing the ‘business’ he was so famous for. So Clark worked his way through the party, slipping between the socialites of the city, like a particularly clumsy blood hound on the hunt.

-

Bruno Mannheim. The name had been in the back of Bruce’s mind for quite some time, always aware of what the man was doing in Metropolis in case he decided to expand to Gotham. Expand he had. The first signs of the crime boss in Bruce’s city gad been subtle, only someone intimately tied to the goings on of Gotham’s underbelly would have noticed. That someone had been Bruce, if course, and as the man’s gang spread their mayhem further and deeper, he knew he needed to act, not just as the Batman but as Bruce Wayne as well. If there was something bigger going on, Bruce would be the one to find out and the Bat would put a stop to it.

This was how Bruce found himself in Metropolis at a swanky party, making connections and working his way towards Bruno himself. Getting in on the man’s good side wouldn’t take much, really, the promise of legitimate contracts or some such would be enticing enough for an ‘upstanding businessman’ and from there it was only a stone’s throw to gaining access to his databases and intel.

Noticing his champagne was empty, Bruce turned to find a waiter and bumped directly into another man. “Woah, easy there…” he smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes, and clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder in a friendly yet mildly dominating gesture, “Gotta be careful at these things, huh?” His piece said, Bruce moved to step away to continue on his way, the man’s face behind the glasses already forgotten as a drunk couple laughed and cut his retreat off completely unaware of what they were doing. It was all Bruce could do not to snap at them, he had to keep his unaffected playboy shtick up for the evening, no matter how trying it was.

-

Speak of the devil.

Clark grimaced, his shoulders trying to bunch up around his ears as he tried to avoid sloshing his unfortunately expensive drink all over his sleeve. It was a lost cause, and Wayne was already gone, but that didn’t matter. Clark performed with the assumption that someone was always watching. Most of the time, it wasn’t an actual _performance._

He pushed his glasses up across the bridge of his nose, nervous because of how volatile _Brucie Wayne,_  feckless, flashy playboy was. Who knew what it would take to spook him off? Maybe nothing, maybe everything. Clark only had one chance.

“Mr. Wayne, Mr. Wayne,” he called after his target, using his ungainly bulk rather than his strength to block Wayne’s path. He zigged when Wayne would’ve wanted him to zagged, and zagged when he wanted him to get the fuck away from him, like a particularly determined fly. “Fancy seeing you here tonight. Are you making a habit of obliging Bruno Mannheim?” 

“This is all his party, isn’t it.” It wasn’t a question.

-

Bruce had just gotten past the drunk couple when suddenly there was another person in his way. He huffed out an irritated breath, his eyes rolling a little when they got in a little dance together while he was trying to get away. Levelling his cold gaze at the man, barely recognizing him from thirty seconds before, Bruce smiled in a patronizing sort of way. 

“If you’re here you know it’s Mannheim’s party… I don’t recall meeting you but you seem to know me….” He raised his eyebrows expectantly, something about the way the question had been worded that caught his attention and he needed to know what this guy knew, if anything. 

-

Clark had to wonder if smiling so condescendingly came naturally to a man like Wayne or if he spent time practicing in front of a mirror. He shuffled in his ill-fitting suit, trying to buy himself some time to figure out how to get any sort of reaction out of Wayne that wasn’t  _drunken wastrel._ This really wasn’t his beat, but at least, he figured, this guy was no Lex Luthor.

“Clark Kent, Daily Planet.” He said in a rush, but he held his hand out to shake, his grip intentionally lax. Hands just a little clammy. “Is Wayne Enterprise going to be partners with Mannheim on all fronts? Including Mannheim’s association with the Metropolis mob?”

-

Bruce shook the man’s - Clark’s - hand, his lips pursing a little at the dead fish that shook back. Weak. Disappointing. Completely in contrast to the very direct, very nosey questions that he was asking. He certainly couldn’t let this get out of hand, especially since he didn’t know if Clark was in someone’s pocket.

“What’s that?” Bruce leaned in, pretending to not have heard Clark, clapping his hand on the man’s shoulder once again, giving him a little shake and not letting him repeat himslef, “Look, Mark, it’s a party, no business talk, yeah? Lemme get you some champagne. Hey! Hey, waiter, c’mere, thank you…” He ignored Clark, grabbed two full flutes from the server who had come when he called, handing one to Clark with a smile. “Have a good night, kid…”

-

What an _asshole_.

Clark jerked back reflexively, trying to get out of Wayne’s face, though the urge to throw his glass at Wayne’s face was far too tempting for one, agonizing moment. His mouth was working but no sound came out, and part of him almost reveled in the act. At least it distracted him from wanting to swat Wayne.

He was being stone-walled. Whether or not Wayne’s handlers had instructed him to, or if it was simply an issue of the billionaire not liking him, Clark couldn’t say. He moved in closer, slipping one foot between Wayne’s expensive loafers, just to make retreating that much harder.

“The press says you play hard and fast with your bed fellows, but Wayne Enterprise has never been so reckless.” For a second, a thread of concern warmed his tone. Wayne Enterprise was a cornerstone of Gotham’s economy. It wasn’t like them to be so reckless, and one of the concerns Clark had entertained was blackmail at the root of the issue. “What’s next? You teaming up with the Batman?”

-

If there was one thing he hated about these parties, besides the fact that he had to put on his playboy act, it was being cornered by someone he didn’t want to talk to, be it a liquored up gold digger, shitty senator or a relentless reporter. There were so many people he was practically boxed in and, though tempting, he couldn’t just grab Clark by the shirtfront and break the leg that was currently blocking his path. So tempting.

For a split second, Bruce thought he heard something like concern in Clark’s tone and for that fleeting moment wondered if the guy wasn’t just after some exaggerated story to get a promotion. The question about the Batman quickly cured him of any such thoughts and his forced smile dropped, turning into a very unimpressed scowl.

“I don’t know who you think you are or who you think you’re talking to, _Mark_ , but you need to back off, physically and metaphorically, unless you _want_ a restraining order on your no doubt impeccable work record?” he didn’t break eye contact, hoping to intimidate the part of Clark that couldn’t even shake a man’s hand properly.

-

Wow, Clark Kent’s very first restraining order. 

Clark was torn between a quietly arrogant sort of pride, and unfortunate chagrin. He pushed too many buttons too quickly, driven to act by a ticking clock. This was nowhere near as satisfying as the ones Lex Luthor had tried to slap on Superman, and not just because mild-mannered Clark had to sink into himself, his glasses sliding down his nose as anxiety and a sharp flare of irritation danced in front of his eyes. The reporter shtick might have been a facade, but it was more real than Superman could ever be, and it was times like these that Clark wished he could question it.

Then he grit his jaw, and met Wayne’s eyes behind his thick horn-rimmed glasses. “Bruno Mannheim’s bad news, not just for your _company_ ,” he spat out the word, certain he’d found the only thing Wayne could care about. “But for all the people that depend on it.”

Then he backed off, retreating into himself like an overgrown turtle, his figurative tail tucked between his legs. Clark only bumped into a waiter once on his way out.

-

Bruce didn’t waste time laughing at how easily Clark backed off with a little intimidation thrown into the mix. He made a mental note of it and the headed downstairs where he knew Mannheim kept his servers. Slipping through the unassuming door with a quick glance to the kitchen where staff were hard at work, Bruce quickly set about hooking up his drive.

In the kitchen, behind an unused microwave in the far corner sat an unassuming box inside a plain white plastic bag. Had any of the staff had time to investigate - presuming anyone had even noticed it - they would have had time to escape. As it happened, no one saw it, no one heard the quiet ticking, and only one unfortunate sous chef heard the ding followed by a creepy sort of mechanical laugh before the bomb exploded.

The explosion rocked the house and Bruce went immediately towards the chaos. “Get out! This way! C'mon!” he grabbed the staff and made sure they were headed towards the exit and not some dead end as he went deeper towards the flame and smoke.

With one arm up shielding his face, Bruce noticed the foot sticking out from behind the counter nearest the worst of the wreckage. Someone must have been right next to the blast. He went quickly and grabbed the man, pulling him up which thankfully woke him up and they stumbled out towards the exit together.

“Hey!” Bruce caught the attention of a server who came to help, “Take him, I’m going to make sure everyone is out.” he took no notice of the servers terrified expression and headed back in to make sure there were no others left. Coughing loudly, Bruce went back to where he’d found the sous chef and continued his search as the smoke grew thicker around him. 

-

Clark Kent had disappeared into the crowd, something he was exceptionally good at for a man who was over six feet tall and used to do back-breaking farm chores to clear his head. He found his way to the bar, the proper combination of subdued and _broke_ enough to make the bartender overlok him, at least for the moment. It was strategic, mostly. This was his chance to see if any of Mannheim’s men knew anything of value, a long shot at best, but Bruce Wayne had been, too. And maybe, Clark wanted to soothe his bruised ego a bit, too.

He didn’t get much of a chance. That was a good thing. Kansas farm boys didn’t wear self-pity very well.

The explosion threatened to shake the club at its very core. In the space between two heartbeats, there was silence, and then the alarms went off, and people started screaming. Clark was already gone.

A quick shot of heat vision severed the wires of a security camera, a strategic exit and suddenly Superman was bursting in through the employee entrance. Cracks in the building foundation crept up where the blast had stated, nearly inaudible under the crackle of fire, and suddenly, a wall collapsed. Superman didn’t break a sweat, keeping the roof steady.

The staff escaped relatively unscathed, but there was no one around Bruce  Wayne when a weakened beam crumbled and toppled towards him.

-

The smoke was filling his lungs and it was nearly impossible to see more than a couple feet in front of his face. With a grimace and another loud cough, Bruce was satisfied that everyone had gotten out and he turned to get himself to safety.

The loud snap of the beam was jarring, he could almost feel the sound wave of it and he looked up, hands coming up as he stepped back. In the space of a few seconds more than one thing went through his mind. First was that it wasn’t the worst way to go. Sure, being crushed wasn’t ideal, but at least he’d been able to help someone before hand, maybe Bruce Wayne’s reputation would be improved a bit. Maybe the obituary would be something to be proud of. Maybe. The second thing he experienced was anger. Anger at not being able to finish his work, so many things that he needed to _do_ yet. He wasn’t _ready_.

There wasn’t time to get out of the way, everything seemed to slow down to a crawl. The beam was headed right for him and as he started to crouch to jump even though it was already too late, his arm came up to futilely protect his head. 

-

An audible crash echoed through the room, the unmistakable sound of stone breaking over stone, but none of it touched Bruce. Curled over him were an inhumanly strong pair of arms, draped by a cape as obnoxiously vibrant as the flames around them. For a second, a flicker of humor danced behind an alien gaze, an appreciation for irony that was all too human. It was gone as quickly as it had come, and Superman was very careful when he shrugged the debris off his back. “Mr. Wayne. Keep your head down please.”

In the blink of an eye, Bruce was wrapped in that ridiculous cape and pulled closer by hands that could take apart mountains, but treated him like a particularly temperamental cat. Possibly one that needed to have its claw trimmed.

And then they were shooting through the air, through the hole in the wall the explosion created.

-

Bruce was breathing hard, adrenaline pumping hard and fast through his veins, every inch of him ready for the pain that was sure to come. It never did and it took only a fraction of a second for him to understand what had happened. Superman. He looked up as Superman straightened, his eyes narrowing at the size of the man before him. Blatantly disobeying the request to keep his head down, Bruce straightening himself and opening his mouth to snap at Superman to get the hell away from him.

He would have, if he hadn’t found himself wrapped in a stupid red cape, held tight to a chest that felt as solid as Ra’s al Ghul’s had been. It was intolerable and Bruce struggled as he felt his feet lift off the ground and the wind whip past his face.

“What are you…” he stopped struggling when it occurred to him that Superman would drop him if he got his way and that wasn’t particularly appealing with no utility belt on hand. He settled a little but still tried to push away, wanting at least some distance between them, easily starting the threats that only Bruce Wayne would think would be effective, “This is _kidnapping_! I’m gonna sue you for everything you got, _alien_!" 

-

Superman had been called far worse by people who were far more unscrupulous than Gotham’s prodigal prince ever could be. He could handle placating one obviously unnerved man, and yet… 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne. All I have is the cape on my back, and I don’t think red is really your color.” He sounded almost entirely sincere, the same way that only a man in a tight blue and red could ever really pull off, but a flicker of a smile dared itself across his features. Blink and you’d miss it, and Superman fully expected Bruce to blink. He did, however, allow Bruce some semblance of comfort, moving him a little way away from his body. He didn’t think it was possible for the billionaire to dislodge himself, even without Superman being fully focused, but he really did want to make Bruce as comfortable as possible. He was a world class tool, but that didn’t mean Superman could justify treating him as less of a person.

It was all going well, until the flames hit the battered building’s gas line and the explosion sent Superman spinning. His grip tightened automatically around Bruce, ready to shield him on impact. They fell ten feet before he found his barrings. 

The fire was spreading, and even with all his speed, Superman knew that it took precedence over landing the man in his arms.

-

The unbelievable nerve to crack a joke like that in such a situation. He caught the little smirk, almost missed it, and pushed away a little harder as he grouched under his breath about flying assholes and idiotic nonhumans. It seemed to work a bit as Superman relaxed his grip, putting some space between them though it certainly wasn’t enough for Bruce’s liking.

When the blast hit Bruce’s reaction was completely automatic, at least that’s what he’d tell himself whenever he remembered this day. Superman’s arms tightened and Bruce’s, which had been near the man’s chest wrapped tightly around his neck to keep him attached as they fell.

“Shit! The people! Put me down, put me down and go help them, what are you doing!? Put me down! Let me go!” Bruce struggled hard now, not caring if Superman dropped him. He probably wouldn’t die? He kept shouting and squirming and trying to get away though for some reason he was still stuck to Superman’s chest like he wasn’t even trying. Beyond frustrating. 

-

Superman was already moving, scanning the area for any lingering civilians and a safe spot to put down his charge. There were none, but the fire was spreading quickly, through the populated Metropolis neighborhood, and the ringing in his ear told him that the closest fire truck was still over ninety seconds away.

The good humor was gone from Superman’s tone, replaced with a somber countenance that sharpened his features. He met the human’s gaze evenly, as if drawn in by the intensity of Wayne’s gaze. Like ice tinged blue, all the more captivating as the flames bathed his skin in a golden glow, darkening the shadows across his cheeks. He needed him to believe him. He was already spending precious seconds. “Mr. Wayne, there isn’t any time. I need your cooperation. I need you to keep still. The fire is spreading too quickly, and too many people will get hurt if you don’t hold on. Please.”

_I need you._

He could force Wayne to remain immobile. He could knock him out and throw him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, but Superman never spared much thought to those as first options. He knew more than most how resilient humans could be.

With a curt nod, Superman charged towards the flame and let out a carefully measured blast of freezing air - before catching the damaged ruins of an oven seemed to have fallen out of the sky.

-

Of course Superman wouldn’t drop him. Of course. The perfectly moral asshole wouldn’t sacrifice one for the sake of many. It wasn’t how the guy worked. Bruce’s shouting cut off mid word when Superman made eye contact. For a short moment, Bruce was struck by the vision before him. A soft glow, highlighting Superman’s features, his eyes almost otherworldly in their intensity. Otherworldly, how apropos considering. Bruce set his jaw and gave a curt nod before he quickly reached one hand down to untangle his legs from the cape so he could wrap them around Superman’s waist.

He felt Superman’s lungs fill with air and then there was a cool feeling around him as the fire was starved. Keeping himself tight against Superman so he wouldn’t interfere more than he already was just by being there, Bruce forced himself to focus on keeping still so he wouldn’t be distracted by flashbacks to Superman’s face or how he could feel every muscle and sinew in the man move and shift as they moved through the air or how amazing the guy smelled.

There was a rather loud noise close to his head, causing him to flinch before he turned his head in towards Superman to look up. The movement was unfortunate - fortunate - in that Bruce bumped - almost a nuzzle, really - his nose against the side of Superman’s head. He let out a soft breath when he saw the oven in Superman’s hands and turned back, gritting his teeth when he bumped against the other’s ear once again.

Though he couldn’t see, Bruce couldn’t feel the heat from the fire nor hear the crackle and roar from the flame and he knew the fire was out. When he heard the cheer rising up from the party goers and staff, it was confirmed and all he could do was pray that all the reporters’ cameras and everyone’s phones had somehow been destroyed so no one would get a shot of Bruce friggen Wayne clinging to Superman like a child. 

-

Bruce had an incredible sense of balance. Superman moved his grip to make him as comfortable as possible, but he was a tall man with long, powerful legs that Superman paid more attention to than he ought to, given the circumstances. As often as Bruce must have hit the gym, this position would’ve gotten strenuous for most men, but Bruce held on like it was nothing.

A warm whisper of breath tickled his ear, and it was only his fine-tuned muscle control that kept him from shuddering. 

Superman threw the oven over his shoulder like it was a paper ball, but he carefully lowered them to the ground like he thought Bruce was made of glass. As their feet touched solid Earth, he offered the billionaire a careful smile and gently unwound his cape from Bruce’s shoulders.

“Thank you, Mr. Wayne,” he said earnestly. And though they hadn’t moved a step away from each other, he could add honestly, “I heard what you did for Mr. Rodriguez. Without you, he wouldn’t have gotten out in time. It was very brave of you.”

Superman mean it completely. That didn’t mean Clark Kent wasn’t going to expedite a few telling pictures to the Daily Planet gossip column. Bruce Wayne was still a dick.

-

As soon as Bruce felt Superman shift to get ready to land he unwound his legs, keeping his arms tight for no other purpose than pure self-indulgence. The guy sounded so genuine and it was hard to stay pissed at so sincere a thank you. Though he was loathe to do it, Bruce had the Wayne playboy shtick to keep up so he stepped back as he tugged at his suit jacket, straightening his rumpled shirt.

“That his name? Didn’t get properly introduced,” he cleared his throat and ran a hand through fluffed up hair, the small but of vanity in him wondering just how sooty his face was, “I suppose you want a ‘thank you’ for saving me…” of course, he didn’t actually say it but that was entirely the point. 

-

“Don’t mention it, Mr. Wayne. Hopefully your next trip to Metropolis will be less eventful. You should be more careful.” Superman said, and behind his smile, Clark was still weighing his decision to say anything at all, no matter how oblique that last statement had been. He didn’t want to mirror his civilian self too much, but it was a warning worth heeding.

Gently, Superman reached out, to cup the billionaire’s cheek and wipe away a smudge of ash on cheekbones that were sharp enough to cut. “Ash.” He explained easily, before taking a step back.

With another curt nod of his head, he waved good bye to the crowd that had gathered, checking in once with the EMTs that came in to make sure they didn’t need any assistance before he was off into the night.

Clark had a story to run.

-

‘ _You should be more careful_ ’ like he was a damn twelve year old. Bruce’s jaw worked as his eyes narrowed and he was about to say something very witty and sarcastic when Superman’s hand reached out towards him.

Again it was like time was slowing down as Superman’s hand, strong and warm, held him for a fraction of a second while his thumb brushed across his cheek in an almost tender caress. Bruce jerked his head to the side, glaring at the other as he used ash as an excuse and then left. What a crock.

The EMTs came to Bruce after Superman took off and proceeded to mother hen him worse than Alfred. He finally snapped and threatened to sue if they didn’t back off and leave him alone that very instant and he quickly made his way through the crowd to find Mannheim.

The mob boss was surrounded by personal security and Bruce didn’t smile as he walked up to the man and sighed. “Hope your business isn’t as explosive as your pleasure, Mr. Mannheim, I might have to take my investments elsewhere…” it was more than enough to get the conversation rolling and they agreed to meet the following week to hash out the details of their contracts. A job well done on Bruce’s part and now he had to get home and do a little digging on a mild mannered reporter from The Daily Planet to see if there was going to be a problem.


	2. Hometown Advantage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, Clark meets Batman who saves him and gives him a ride home. He doesn't ask for Clark's address and he's very put out by this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is co-written with the lovely sonxfkrypton on tumblr. I'm doyoubleedxyouwill :) I put a little - between each section to delineate where each wrote. Hopefully I didn't mess it up.

Clark was more pleased than he had any right to be when Superman’s picture made the front page of the Daily Planet right above a far less disheartening one featuring what was left of Mannheim’s club. It was a nice picture, if he said so himself. A bit of wind had kicked up the cape around Bruce Wayne’s heels. The fact that Wayne’s people really did sound like they wanted to sue was all the better.

But Wayne was out of the question. Clark could push him for more info, but he’d rather focus on somewhere he was guaranteed results. Mannheim though, was a tricky friggin asshat. Superman had taken to flying over his legitimate business fronts just to smile and kick up his blood pressure, but he knew from previous excursions that Mannheim was very careful about anything within Metropolis’s borders. 

He was weighing the options of waving a big red and blue flag on Gotham soil and meeting with the elusive Bat, when Lois slapped her invitation to a journalist convention in Gotham ( _Here, Smallville. Maybe the a rookie like you can learn something.” “Lois, I’ve been here for years.” “Mhmm.”_ _)_. Well. Wasn’t that serendipity?

So it was Clark Kent, the far less noticeable of the two, who’d pulled away from lavish buffet to sneak across the docks to where Wayne’s warehouses (and hopefully Mannheim’s offices) would be able to tell him the most. It should have been an easy mission. In and out in five minutes.

Nothing was ever easy.

-

Despite the completely ridiculous photo that had made it into the paper, Bruce was pleased with the outcome of the evening. His hardware had managed to transmit a good solid chunk of Mannheim’s files to the batcave super computers and from there Bruce had learn a great deal about his new business partner.

Bruno Mannheim was nothing if not exceedingly eager to get his claws into Gotham. The ink was barely put to paper allowing the gangster unfettered access to Wayne Enterprise’s warehouse when he was moving stock and paperwork into the place. Of course since it was Bruce’s warehouse, he knew all the ins and outs, every security code, every employee. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, as they said.

Donning cape and cowl, Bruce made his way down to the warehouse, expecting the five guards and no one else to have to deal with. It should have been an easy mission. In and out in half an hour.

Nothing was ever easy.

-

Superman wasn’t one for subterfuge. Superman wore a giant red cape, which was about as subtle as holding up a large blinking target. He wanted to be seen. He wanted to make an entrance. That didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of it.

Clark hovered on the ground, barely half an inch, but enough that he didn’t have footsteps as he crept along the warehouse floor. He made his way to the second floor, so he could over look the building. With a burst of super speed - making sure there was no one around - he disabled two of the security cameras, just deactivating a handful of wires with a quick tug. They could probably be repaired. Hopefully.

He’d counted five heart beats in the immediate area, and looked down at himself warily. Even if he thought he could avoid them, he probably should have worn something more.. spy-like, than a large black hoodie. 

Slowly, he made his way down to the ground floor, meaning to look through the mysterious unmarked cartons that Mannheim was bringing in. Whatever it was, there was too much lead inside to get a clear view. He placed his hands on the lid, and prepared to lift it off, hoping to make the least noise possible.

-

“Master Wayne, there’s an alarm that two security cameras have been disabled in the warehouse…”

Bruce frowned, his eyes narrowing as he jump down from the batjet to an adjacent building, perching on the roof to assess the situation.

“The guards?” 

“Two in the security room, three just left for their patrols, they’re splitting off into their usual patterns, it appears that Mr. Mannheim trusts you quite explicitly, not changing protocols…”

Bruce smirked, Mannheim thought he was an idiot. It was perfect.

“Going in, keep tabs on them, notify me of any chang-…” he didn’t have a chance to finish before there was a sudden loud series of bangs that sounded a hell of a lot like gun shots. Bruce tensed, quickly scanning the area and letting out a relieved breath. Nothing but a couple of punk kids with some firecrackers. “Dammit…” he hated distractions. 

Without further hesitation, Bruce leapt off the roof and glided down, landing gracefully on the roof and heading in through the door after punching in the code only he knew that would make it appear that the door was still closed and locked. Once inside, he made his way down to the main warehouse floor, knowing there was nothing on the second floor yet. He caught sight of the first guard entering the far side of the warehouse and made his way silently into the room.

_Shit_.

“Alfred, there’s someone else in the warehouse… stand by….” he didn’t know if it was another guard or a rival gang member or what but he had to wait and see how the guards reacted before he would know his course of action.

-

There was a rush of noise all at once, and Clark froze, certain that Superman was going to have to make a hasty appearance, the Bat’s ruffled feathers notwithstanding. Then there was too sharp laughter and he was coming back to himself, his fingers just digging into the crate, trying to get a grip. If he was lucky, he’d be able to pull out the nails and reapply them on his own, to hide his arrival.

The guards were closer than he would like, but he could be fast if he needed to be. Then there was a sudden, unfamiliar surge of sound that Clark realized too late was a heartbeat. He looked up wildly, unsure what he was going to see.

“Hey you! What the Hell do you think you’re doing?” 

Clark took an unsteady step back, just as the guard on the opposite end of the room fired a shot.

-

Whoever the intruder was, Bruce couldn’t let him be killed. As soon as he heard the other guard enter the room, he was in action, throwing three batarangs in quick succession as he jumped from the beam towards the unknown man. All three hit their targets, the first causing a sharp clink of metal on metal as it hit the bullet just coming out of the gun, the other two thunking dully into flesh and bone. Both guards screamed, one clutching his wrist as he stared at the metal impaled in his palm, his gun clattering to the ground while the other dropped, his dominant arm disabled by metal sticking out of a particularly painful pressure point.

Bruce hit the ground and rolled, not losing momentum as he ploughed into the guy, grabbing the man and shoving him back into the boxes with a growl. “What are you…” his words cut off in recognition of the Daily Planet reporter who had harassed him at Mannheim’s party. Bruce pulled him closer before slamming him hard against the wooden crates, “What ar-…”

Again he was cut off by shouts of the other three guards who had been alerted by the sound of the gun shot and subsequent screams. Bruce had to get Clark out of there. Now. With zero ceremony, he grabbed Clark around the waist and pulled out the batclaw, shooting it into a far crate and jerking back sharply, throwing the box in front of the closest door, buying them a few precious seconds. He used the momentum from the pull to help propel himself and Clark forward, using his cape as a sort of shield, not letting Clark get his feet under him. From the way the guy had acted at the party he would probably trip over a perfectly flat floor and get them both killed in the process. Three smoke grenades to cover their escape and they were out the door, running towards the batplane that was on autopilot and landing close by.

“Shut down the alarms and scramble the cops.” he growled to Alfred, careful not to use names.

“Right away, sir…” The butler was smart enough to know when to ask questions and when to keep quiet. This was one instance of the latter.

-

It was the Batman. Of course it was the Batman. Over eight million people in Gotham City, and he had to run into the one person who he couldn’t fool with a quick burst of speed. Because Batman saw him. He was coming in fast.

Clark gasped, letting his legs go limp as he was knocked into the boxes, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his noes. He fumbled with them, to hide the way he scanned the vigilante’s mask only to find it lined with lead. Clark hadn’t been worried before, but he was now. “Wait, don’t-!”

Then all at once they were in the air. Clark had to fight the urge to make himself lighter, but it didn’t seem to matter. Batman was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Instead he held on, marveling at the coiled strength that thrummed through the other man’s body, both brutal and fragile all at once. A quiet hush fell over him, and as they touched down, Clark stumbled forward a step.

“Its just like flying.” He breathed, quietly reverent, staring up at Batman with wide eyes, but they were already moving. The gun fire behind them hadn’t stopped.

Clark didn’t know what he could touch and what he couldn’t, snapping his seat belt on and letting his hands fall into his lap. That didn’t stop him from making demands. “What are you doing here?!”

-

Batman shoved Clark into the passenger seat, barking orders at the batplane to take off and execute a holding flight plan in a slow circle around Gotham. He sat quickly and looked over to make sure the reporter was buckled in safely and his eyes narrowed at the question. Bruce certainly wasn’t above lying and a bit of a fib now was no problem if it got him around the issue of how the Batman would know some no-name reporter from another city.

“Run facial recognition sequence….” he made sure that the cowl was turned so that both whited out eyes were on the man as if there really was such a thing taking place, “Kent, Clark… Daily Planet reporter… what is a hack like you doing in Gotham?” Bruce’s voice was altered by Alfred’s ingenious modulator, coming out in the trademark gravely Batman growl.

-

Behind his glasses, Clark stared in wide-eyed _horror,_  as if he didn’t regularly vibrate his features while under surveillance. Still, security measure or no, it was still a little comforting when the computer (bat computer? batputer?) didn’t spit out ‘Superman’ as its final answer.

“The same thing you are, I’d think.” He said. His voice trembled, just once, almost too faint to hear and Clark shrunk as much as inhumanly possible into his chair. Yet there was a tinge of hopefulness in his tone, hope in being shot down hard, that he couldn’t quite mask as he tried, “Unless your idea of a night out is guarding Bruno Mannheim’s investments.”

And then under his breath, like it physically pained him to ask, he mumbled, “Are you really a vampire?”

-

Bruce’s head tilted to the side, his neck giving a very satisfying crack at the question about being a vampire. “I’m ignoring that.” he stated firmly, scowling lightly as he started entering in data to his computer that uploaded to his secure cloud server. In a moment of pity or stupidity, he wasn’t sure which, Bruce decided to indulge Clark his question.

“I do _not_ guard Mannheim’s investments, you need a better source for your information, Kent, if that’s what you think. Don’t make me repeat myself. _Talk_.”

He usually minced his words when he donned the cowl but somehow, with Clark, he wanted him to know the truth about him and what he did. It was a little strange but he didn’t question it too deeply.

-

His breath caught in his throat, and Clark had to pointedly remind himself that he didn’t need to breathe, but if anyone else caught on to that, he’d be in hot water. He inhaled slowly.

“I’m going out on a limb here and I’m gonna hope you know Mannheim’s bad news,” Clark said, all in a rush. The Batman (just Batman?) was intimidating. He could understand it now, taking everything in like the corn-fed farm boy he still was. Everything about Batman exuded an air of invulnerability, all the more intimidating as the shadows seemed to grow across his face. Heck, if he couldn’t hear the steady beating of his pulse, he might believe that whole vampire gag.

“He’s up to something. I know his type. I didn’t get to check out his main office, but all his shipment invoices are coded. I just needed more time down there…”

Then softer still, more pointed than he’d intended but he said, “I think you need to look into Bruce Wayne.”

-

Clark knew nothing more than what Bruce did and, honestly, Bruce was impressed with Clark’s gumption. It took guts to break into a mob boss’s warehouse, alone, no back up, not even a _weapon_ to get information. He was starting to think that there was more heart to the guy than he’d first thought. Sure, he was awkward and clumsy and stuck his nose into business when he shouldn’t (like right then…) but he was determined, that couldn’t be denied.

That said, Bruce couldn’t have Clark messing around when he had his plans. It would put them both in danger. The comment about needing to look into Bruce Wayne gave him an idea and he decided to run with it.

“You’re not going back there.” Firm. No discussion. No nonsense. “It’s not safe. Investigating Wayne would be a better use of your time.”

-

“No, I mean…” He gave Batman a once over, looking along the back of his cowl, completely uncertain but willing to take the risk. He didn’t think Batman was going to appreciate Superman making frequent trips to Gotham, just to check on  billionaire who could afford his own security. 

“I think Mr. Wayne might be in trouble.” Clark said slowly, but his vehemence sharpened with every word, like he thought Batman would cut him off at any moment. “I know what the papers say, but as a hack, I know it’s not all true. Mr. Wayne and Wayne Enterprise have always had the good of Gotham in mind. His track record speaks for himself. A move like this is - getting messed up with Mannheim is dangerous. An it doesn’t seem like anything he’d normally do.”

-

Bruce hacked into the Daily Planet’s human resources server and got Clark’s address, entering it into the autopilot so he’d be able to focus more on the man than flying them through the buildings of the city. His eyes narrowed under the cowl and his jaw worked a little at the man’s words. He was actually worried about Bruce’s safety. It was sweet, really, the more that Bruce learned about Clark, the more he understood. Clark was the reason the Batman existed. He was kind and that kindness extended even to assholes like Bruce Wayne and that needed to be protected from the bad in the world that was hellbent on destroying all forms of generosity and care.

“I understand.” he said simply as the batplane slowed and hovered over the roof of Clark’s building before slowly descending to land, the engines quiet purr whispering to a halt. The jet was quiet, but the silence that followed when the engines stopped was always all-encompassing, and Bruce took two full seconds to take in a breath before he unbuckled himself and hit the button to open the door, heading out to the rooftop without another word.

-

There was a finality in Batman’s tone that almost made Clark feel secure. Sure, Bruce Wayne was a grade-a jerk (and Clark could say that with the same connotation as most people would use for _bastard_ ), but he couldn’t buy into the drunken wastrel shtick completely. The Waynes and their business was a cornerstone in Gotham, and you didn’t have to be a nice person to do good work.

If only things with Batman were as direct. At least, he thought wryly, he knew for sure that the vigilante wouldn’t hurt an unarmed civilian, despite obviously being displeased with Clark’s choices.

Then something became imminently clearer.

“How do you know where I live?!” He had the gall to sound offended. Clark unbuckled his own seatbelt about a beat later.

-

“Entrance to the stairwell is to your left, sir…”

Bruce said nothing, just went straight to the door and examined the handle and lock for a moment before snorting loudly and shaking his head. “Piss poor security…” he grumbled under his breath as he pulled out his lock picking kit and made quick work of the “lock”. Jerking the door open, he turned back towards Clark and scowled. Though, had he ever even stopped scowling?

“Stay out of Gotham.” Another order. Simple, straight forward, easy to follow. As soon as Clark was inside, Bruce could get back to the batcave and try and see if they’d flushed out any few rats in their escapades.

-

“D-did you just break in?!” And for the first time that night, Clark didn’t have to fake his stutter. He gaped, open-mouthed and _insulted,_  personally and professionally insulted. He couldn’t seem to pick his jaw off the ground, staring at the vigilante like he’d grown an extra head. “To my house? You can’t do that.”

Never mind that Batman, just proved that he really, really could do that.

Superman never saw much of a need for security. It was hard to worry about most break ins when he was on a reporter’s salary and bullets tended to bump off his chest, but to see Batman break in! Like! Clark lived in a _good_  neighborhood!

-

It seemed fairly obvious to Bruce that he had, in fact, just broken in to Clark’s building seeing as he was standing there with the door open. The muscle next to his mouth twitched in irritation and he barely stopped his unimpressed sigh.

He had to get going, not stand there and tend to the wounded sensibilities of a hack reporter. Bruce reached forward and grabbed the front of Clark’s shirt, jerking him forward so there was barely an inch of space between their noses. “Stay out. Of Gotham.” he repeated once more for emphasis before shoving Clark forward into the building just enough so he’d make it past the door to the small entrance way. With that, Bruce slammed the door and headed back to the batplane, taking off quickly and heading back to the cave.

-

Clark let out a particularly undignified squeak, but it was a performance again. It took all his self-control to back down when Batman challenged him, shoulders folding into him. His mask was as real as the cowl on his face, and he averted his eyes nervously, his glasses sliding down his nose once more. 

Clark never got to get the last word in, but he harumphed unhappily at the closed door before slowly making his way downstairs. It was only once he was in his apartment that he scanned the roof for any equipment the Bat might have left behind. 

One thing was for sure, it was going to take more than Batman to keep Clark out of Gotham.


	3. Out Of Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bruce meets Superman who saves him and takes him to the hospital and then takes Alfred and Bruce back to the mansion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is co-written with the lovely sonxfkrypton on tumblr. I'm doyoubleedxyouwill :) I put a little - between each section to delineate where each wrote. Hopefully I didn't mess it up.

The next meeting with Mannheim was pushed forward so they could discuss security and upgrading the systems in place. Bruce showed up late to the warehouse, the others having had already arrived and started discussing the incident. There were drinks and snacks available but Bruce stuck with bottled water, begging off anything else by blaming a rather rambunctious party the evening before. He made sure to have valuable input into the discussions, however, so that the mobster knew he was serious about their contract. It certainly put Bruno at ease but there was something in the man’s demeanour that put Bruce on edge and it put him even more on edge that he couldn’t figure out what it was. 

Half an hour in, Bruce set the empty water bottle down as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I think we’ve got ourselves a fine plan, Mr. Mannhei-…” Bruce jerked back, confusion painting his features as the room started to spin suddenly, right in front of his eyes. Something was very wrong and he struggled to stay conscious as he toppled out of the chair and rolled onto his back, blinking hard as he tried to focus. 

Mannheim’s laughter echoed in his ears and Bruce grit his teeth together as he attempted to get into his breast pocket for his antidote tabs, his own mix of activated charcoal, atropine, calcium chloride and various other substances that covered almost every known poison to man. Completely useless when you couldn’t get the tab into your mouth.  _“Don’t worry, Bruce, you’ll be juuuust fine…”_

Somehow the words were cold comfort and they were the last thing he heard before falling unconscious.

When Bruce came to, he was on Mannheim’s couch, looking up at the ceiling, his head was pounding and his mouth dry. He gave a little cough and groaned, hearing a chair being pushed back and footsteps approaching. 

-

A steady arm came up to nudge Bruce back into the couch cushion with far less care than someone in his condition needed. Mannheim didn’t stop until he was flat on his back. All things considered, it was pretty easy. “Hey, easy there, Bruce. Can I call you Brucie?”

There was a languid arrogance in his tone, the tone of a man who is looking at a royal flush on the first deal in. The tone of a man who knows he’s won. “It must’e been all the excitement, Brucie. Too much for your sensibilities as it were. You Gothamites need more air, don’t you? _Agree with me._ ”

There was an undercurrent of power in his words when he gave the command, and Mannheim wasn’t satisfied until Bruce did exactly that.

“That’s what I thought. Why don’t we clear your head a little? Stand on one foot and rub your head, Bruce.”

-

Too disoriented to put up any sort of fight, Bruce frowned at how easily Mannheim pushed him down. Arms and legs feeling like they were filled with lead, all he could do was try to shake his no. _No, you can’t call me Brucie._

His senses were coming back to him and he huffed a small breath as Mannheim talked. Needed more air? That was complete nonsens-

“Yes…” his tongue felt thick in his mouth and he wasn’t quite sure why he’d agreed with Bruno but it felt right, somehow. 

More words and another order that Bruce didn’t even contradict in his mind. He struggled a little sitting up but he stood up from the couch with determination. Taking a short moment to make sure his head was on straight before he lifted his right knee up and started to rub his hand over his head in a circle, Bruce didn’t think there was anything strange about the request at all. It made perfect sense to him, in that moment, to do what Mannheim had commanded and so he did.

-

Mannheim laughed, sharp with delight and hunger. So much hunger. It was so easy like this, even if he’d made a deal with one of the Batman’s rogues gallery. No matter. He handled one caped cocksucker. He could handle another and with his new toy, even Batman wouldn’t be a challenge.

“That’s very good, Brucie. You’re a natural. What else can I make you do?” He grinned, patting Bruce on the face with condescending propriety. “If I made you get on your knees and kiss my boot, would you? What if I made you step outside of that balcony of yours and hang from the banister? Or if I made you kill someone? Answer me Brucie.”

-

Everything felt off. Not by much, maybe only an inch, not enough to truly worry Bruce, who was used to things being off by miles. Just a tiny little niggle in the back of his mind somewhere as he continued to stand on one foot and mess his hair up. Maybe that was the problem. Not that he was doing these things but that he didn’t like the outcome. Wouldn’t stop him, of course, that would be more wrong than a dishevelled look but it still irked him a little. That had to be it.

When Mannheim patted his face, Bruce’s lip curled a little, the tiniest of snarls but he did nothing to stop the man from doing it. The questions didn’t make sense. Of course he would do those things. If Mannheim wanted him to streak naked through Gotham on a unicycle, he’d do it. “Yes, I would… why is that even a question?”

-

“Don’t worry your pretty little head over it, Brucie.” Mannheim said, with the characteristic disdain of one in total control of their charge, the same way a new parent would address a child but without any of the affection. Imbecile. Moron. He accused with his eyes. It made him appear all the more cruel.

“You can put your foot down now. Arent I generous? To thank me, what you’re going to do is delegate all security improvements to this company here, and give my boys free reign of your bank account.” Mannheim said, smoothing out a document for Bruce to see, the locations for his signature ticked with blue ink. It was a first step. Mannheim had to be careful but access to one of Wayne Enterprise’s accounts would make his job a lot easier. “Then you’re going to forget about this, forget I was ever here, forget you signed amything. Isnt that right, Brucie?”

-

The condescension was thick in Mannheim’s tone and it pissed Bruce off more than his messed up hair. He still didn’t put his foot down nor stop his hand however, that thought not even entering his consciousness. It was only when Mannheim gave him permission did he lower his knee, his hand still rubbing a rats nest into his dark locks.

The ‘thanks’ was definitely in proportion to the gift of getting to relax his leg and Bruce sat, quickly scanning the document to make sure it was correct. He wouldn’t sign unless it gave full rights to security to the company and full, unfettered access to his account. It was the least he could do.

Satisfied that the document did just that, Bruce quickly switched hands rubbing his head to free up his dominant hand so he could get his pen from his pocket. As he signed his name, other hand now messing his hair, Bruce nodded. “This will give them all the rights to the security so you can make any changes or upgrades that you like… and the account number is correct…” he added the customary flourish to his signature and set the pen down, looking up at Mannheim one side of his hair sticking out in all directions while the other was quickly getting caught up. “Thank you, Mr. Mannheim, it was very good of you to let me put my leg down…” he felt the need cor a verbal thanks as well as the signature, it just seemed right. With a small smile, Bruce continued, “I’m going to forget all of this now.” His hand still hadn’t stopped.

Mannheim laughed as he returned to his desk to pack up his things, giving Bruce a cursory look, “Stop rubbing your head. Here’s whats going to happen, Brucie, listen up… You’re going to take a nice little nap, lets say… 27 minutes long exactly. When you wake up, all of the things I said to forget will be forgotten and you’ll carry on with your day as usual.”

Bruce simply nodded, his hand had stopped rubbing his head and now gently smoothed over the mess to try and straighten it. “Take care, Mr. Mannheim.” he laid down on the couch and promptly fell asleep as Mannheim left to start phase two of his nefarious plan.

Exactly 27 minutes later Bruce woke up to a dull throb in his head and a bit of confusion as to why he’d been sleeping at the warehouse. He shrugged it off as he stood and stretched with a loud yawn followed by a full-bodied shiver to shake the rest of the fatigue away.

“Gothamites need more air…” he mumbled to himself as he headed out to the small balcony and stepped out, leaning against the meager railing with both hands. Bruce took in a deep breath, eyes closing in relief as the gentle wind picked up his hair. It really was a beautiful evening. His peace was cut short by a sharp stab of pain in his chest, like his heart had gone out if rhythm. With a grunt, he hunched forward instinctively, clawing at his chest as his knees gave out on him, pitching him forward off the balcony. His last thought before blacking out was for the safety of Gotham.

-

The Mannheim case was slowly, but surely taking over his life, Clark thought bitterly. There were too many dead ends. He needed a better look at Mannheim’s operation before he could start bringing anyone in, and the bat vigilante’s warnings weren’t as effective as he probably hoped they were. They just meant Clark was going to have to be more careful. It was beginning to become something of an obsession, one that started to creep into his other duties. 

He found himself thinking of the warehouse, focusing across miles and miles to Gotham city, throughout day, no matter what hemisphere he was in. It was a distraction he couldn’t afford, and in the middle of it all, his thoughts wandered to Bruce Wayne. He wasn’t particularly fond of Mr. Wayne, but the man’s work spoke for itself. It spoke volumes. Clark would no sooner leave Wayne in a cage filled with starving lions than he would in Mannheim’s clutches.  He had no way of knowing if the Bat was keeping his word, but Clark hoped he was. That didn’t mean he didn’t occasionally listen in on his own, from high above the clouds, now in particular, after one quick trip around the continent after a fire in Alberta got out of control.

The lurch of a once-steady pulse sent him skidding to a halt. 

Then Superman was off. He was there in seconds, a mercy because Wayne might not have had much more time. He scooped the billionaire into his arms, leaving behind the gasps of Mannheim’s men as they spotted him from across the building. 

Superman’s grip tightened, angling his back towards them. He didn’t think they’d start shooting, but people had a habit of it. Walking target at all.

“We have to stop meeting like this, Mr. Wayne,” Superman dared, smile lopsided at the slightest angle - only to find that Wayne wasn’t returning it.

-

There was an abrupt but gentle halt to Bruce’s fall that pulled back up into consciousness and he groaned quietly as he leaned in against whoever was holding him so carefully. Holding him. Bruce’s eyes blinked open only to be met with familiar, ethereal blue eyes and a joke that went over his currently muddled head.

“What…. what happened?” he mumbled out thickly, his mouth feeling like it was stuffed with cotton balls, “Pu'me down…” it was meant to be a firm order but came out like nothing of the sort.

“Alfred, I need Alfr-… put… Put me down….” more protests as Bruce put his hand to Superman’s chest to try and push himself away. Somehow his hand misunderstood what his brain wanted because he ended up grabbing where the man’s cape attached to his suit and pulling himself in closer.

-

“Mr. Wayne? Mr. Wayne.” Superman repeated sharply, sparing a glance at Mannheim’s dawdling men. He could hear someone on the phone with their boss, but it didn’t matter now. He was flying away before his x-ray vision tracked Wayne’s stuttering heart, then finally focused on his blood stream. There was something wrong, something odd about the composition of his cells. His immune system had kicked up a notch too, and his grip was just, terrifyingly lax.

“I’ve got  you, Bruce. I’ve got you,” he reassured softly, pillowing the other man’s head in his hand before starting at the leisurely pace of fifty miles an hour towards the closest hospital. Towards the end, he pushed closer to sixty.

Then Superman did something he probably shouldn’t have. It was a gamble. It might have made things worse, or maybe it would be enough to scare Mannheim straight. Superman _stayed._

There would probably be more pictures by evening, none of which Clark Kent could claim as his own.

Under an hour later, impressive considering Gotham’s traffic, Superman found out who the mysterious Alfred was, when a controlled whirlwind of a man swept up to squirrel away Mr. Wayne to far more secure locations. Secure locations being Wayne Manor, and Superman only found out because he offered to personally transport the patient and his butler in under 10 minutes. That was where Wayne would find himself when he eventually woke. He wouldn’t be alone.

-

Bruce was only half aware of what was going on, flitting in and out of consciousness at the hospital. He heard Alfred’s voice and then another that was very familiar… Superman.

When he finally came around, he was laid up in his bed in a pair of silk pyjamas, attached to all manner of medical equipment tracking everything from his heart rate to his blood sugar levels.

“Alfred?” his voice cracked a little, irritating his throat and making him cough.

-

There was a gentle hand on Wayne’s shoulder, keeping him in place, before a glass of water materialized as if by magic, in front of his face. “Mr. Pennyworth is downstairs, fixing lunch.”

He spoke softly, like he thought he could spook Wayne if he wasn’t careful, that carefully crafted smile creasing into an equally symmetric frown. His cape still fluttered around his ankles, like it had a mind of its own, though there was no breeze in the room.

“Are you feeling any better, Mr. Wayne?”

-

The hand was warm and firm, letting Bruce relax back into his pillow, confident that he was safe. The voice that answered him was not Alfred’s but it too was familiar and, though it made Bruce open his eyes with a frown, didn’t cause him alarm. With a small sigh, he raised his hand to direct the glass to his lips to soothe the tickle in his throat, eyes locked onto that perfect face framed with perfect hair. 

It didn’t quite sit right with Bruce that Superman was in his home, he’d have to have a talk with Alfred about that later, but for now, whatever had happened it was obvious that Superman had a hand in getting him home to safety. When he wasn’t destroying cities and entire buildings, Bruce supposed that the alien was a complete write off. He knew he was downplaying Superman’s importance to the world - and perhaps more importantly to himself - but he had to make sure he didn’t fall into the trap of thinking the guy was a god. Not that there was any danger of that, he just didn’t want to admit that having the man there at his bedside made him feel safer than he had in a very long time. 

“I feel… strange…” Bruce answered honestly, letting his hand drop to his chest, his voice softer than usual. He fought with himself, not really wanting Superman to leave just yet - why he wanted him to stay, he didn’t understand - but knowing that he needed to run tests on himself to figure out what was going on. What _was_ going on? “What happened?” he could have easily have asked Alfred but it allowed him to get some information from Superman and keep him here a little longer. Let him feel safe for a few more minutes. 

-

“I was hoping you could help me figure that out,” Superman replied, taking the glass from Bruce’s hands once he was done. He was a big man with broad shoulders, but he folded himself into one of the chairs at Bruce’s bedside.

He’d assumed that matters with Mannheim would escalate, but he’d expected them to happen later rather than sooner, and there was nothing satisfying about knowing Mr. Wayne would be a target. In fact, it didn’t quite make sense. Superman could see no reason Mannheim would want to off his business partner, and without more evidence, he was left without a clear course of action. The entire situation built tension that sat heavily in the pit of his stomach, but the Kryptonian carefully ensured that none of his misgivings.

Superman was looking forward to turning this problem into one that he could punch away. It would come together soon enough. First, he had to do what Clark Kent had failed to accomplish.

“I caught you falling out of your warehouse. Could you tell me what happened? What were you doing before then?”

-

Bruce let out a soft breath and covered his face with his hands, rubbing gently before running his fingers through his hair, more confused than before. “At… the warehouse?” his brow furrowed a little, unable to recall even leaving the mansion let alone going to the warehouse, “I… I honestly don’t remember.” Something was definitely wrong, he didn’t think that Superman would lie to him, he trusted the man’s words more or less, but why had he gone to the warehouse. 

“Why were y-…” He was interrupted by a soft knock on the door and Alfred entered carrying a tray with a healthy lunch of soup, salad, fresh veggies and dip, a protein drink, water, juice, and green tea.

“Master Wayne,” the butler gave a nod to Superman as he set the tray on the bedside table, Bruce sitting himself up and propping himself up against the headboard with a small grumble, “Forgive me, Mr. Superman, our favourite son of Gotham needs to have some vegetable so he can regain his strength for his next spelunking adventure…”

Bruce pursed his lips but held out his hand to stop Alfred, his head tilting to the side slightly, “Yes, yes, Alfred, I’ll get to that soon enough, maybe you can clear something up for us… what was on my schedule earlier today, right from when I woke up, please…”

“But of course, sir,” Alfred gave a small bow to his head, “Today you awoke at six am, as per usual, and, also as per usual, went through your morning routine of workout, breakfast, and daily perusal of international newspapers. After that, you had an appointment with Mr. Graves for your final fitting for your Spring suits and from there, your meeting with Mr. Mannheim at the warehouse. It was then that your unfortunate turn of ill-health and Mr. Superman’s subsequent rescue and delivery to Gotham’s finest hospital put a bit of a hiccup in the rest of your schedule. I made sure of your earliest release to bring you back to Wayne Manor and Mr. Superman was kind enough to transport us here, where we now find ourselves.”

There were vague memories of his morning and the tailoring appointment but after that, there was nothing. It was a complete blank and that unnerved him more than he let on. “I don’t remember anything after… after Graves…..” 

-

Butlers, Jesus. Behind a bland, almost vapid smile, the quiet farmboy in Superman was gawking at such an ostentatious show of wealth. Two people lived on the entire manor, a veritable palace, and only one of them did any sort of work to keep it in check. Even if he’d just seen this room alone, with its state of the art hospital equipment that all bore the Waynetech seal, he’d have come to the same conclusion. It was now, as he smiled politely at Mr. Pennyworth with the careful stillness of a statue, more than ever that Clark realized how different their worlds were.

Superman couldn’t afford to make those  distinctions. It was important, even vital, that Mr. Wayne was just as important as the men and women who built his home with their bare hands. Clark Kent though, quietly filed that knowledge away for when it was safe to reconsider. 

Favorite son of Gotham - there was a good chance that the two men in the room actually believed that tile to be true.

“Mr. Wayne, if you haven’t already, it would be pertinent to order complete blood work done.” Superman offered gently. He had to wonder if someone like Wayne would even care about the medication in his bloodstream. The playboy was notorious, even if 90% of his rumors were false. The iron of it was that humans so often thought themselves invulnerable. If he thought that this was part of one of the games he normally played with the rest of the glitterati, Superman hoped he could convince him otherwise. “And bed rest, for as long as possible.”

For a moment, Mr. Pennyworth’s pulse skittered, the way the pulse of someone who was laughing would. When Superman looked over, his face was as impassive as ever.

-

Bruce looked to Superman when he spoke, nodding in agreement. “Yes, I’ll get a full panel done and…” he pause, frowning, knowing bedrest was going to be nearly nonexistant and somehow hesitating to lie to Superman, “I’ll rest as long as possible… Alfred, full work up and whatever else you think necessary…” Not entirely a lie, just not as long as he figured Superman’s ideal amount was.

Alfred nodded with a quiet ‘right away, sir’ and went to a rolling cart filled with various medical supplies. As he sorted out the things he’d need to take Bruces blood, the man himself took the plate of veggies and dip, some sort of hummus, and started munching away as he spoke.

“Suppose I owe you another ‘thanks’, huh? What were you doing so fortuitously close to my warehouse anyway?” he didn’t even look as he held out his arm so Alfred could draw blood and continued, “I mean, it’s one thing to save me from a fire in Metropolis but coming all the way to Gotham to catch me? Almost like I’ve got another fan, huh, Alfred?”

Bruce watched Superman’s expression as he ate and blathered, ignoring Alfred rolling his sleeve up to expose his elbow and the few scars scattered over that particular swatch of skin. He hoped Superman would get bored enough to leave, not ask anymore upsetting questions about things he couldn’t evenremember so he could set about figuring out what the hell had happened. Alfred finished up and rolled Bruce’s sleeve back down, taking the vial of blood out of the room to run the tests in the batcave as Bruce raised his eyebrows and held out the plate of veggies towards the other man.

-

Superman had caught a glimpse of Bruce’s arm as Alfred worked, and could spot no other puncture sight. That didn’t rule out injection as a mode of transmission, but it tabled it for the moment. Still, nothing short of a full body search could tell him for sure, and Superman doubted Bruce would appreciate that. 

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with your work, Mr. Wayne.” Superman replied, wearing guileless as easily as he did his cape. It never helped anyone to antagonize a civilian who’s been through a trauma, and it seemed Mr. Wayne was collecting them under his belt. 

It felt good though. To know that Bruce was well enough to start joking again, coping mechanism or not. Brave, stubborn human, already in way over his head.

“But you always seem to need a hand when I’m in the neighborhood. Better not make a habit out of it. There are easier ways to call.”  

He still picked a piece of celery off the plate, nodding at Mr. Pennyworth as he passed. He was sure to keep his tone light when he asked, “Mr. Wayne, what’s the last thing you remember after your meeting with Mr. Grave? Did you catch a ride with someone? Drive yourself?”

-

Bruce set the veggie plate back on the tray and let out a soft breath, suddenly feeling very tired. Something was definitely wrong. He gave a little snort at Superman’s quip about making a habit of needing rescue, if he’d fallen off of a balcony as the man had said - and he had no reason to doubt it - he wondered if anyone had snapped a pic of it and he was up for another embarrassing front page spread. He hoped not. 

Superman’s question brought Bruce back from his worries about humiliation and he sighed quietly with a frown. Keeping the playboy mask on was unbelievably taxing and he didn’t think he could keep it up. Not right now. Thankfully, he had a handy excuse to let it drop. No one would be expected to be charming and unaffected by an ordeal such as he’d just experienced. Bruce let his head tilt back until it was resting against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling, hoping for answers to be written there. There were none, of course, and he shook his head slightly, frustrated that he couldn’t remember.

“The suits were… beautiful and we spoke about… ties until his next client showed up…. Greg Hastings. I went out and got into the car. I’d…. we hired a car for the day, Alfred will have that information if you need it. We got to the warehouse and…” Bruce blinked, his brow furrowing, desperately trying to recall something, anything, that could help, “That’s… I need… air….” his breath hitched in his throat as a phrase kept circling through his head _Gothamites need more air. Gothamites need more air. Gothamites need more air._ “I need air… Gotham needs….” the sharp stab of pain in his head made him squeeze his eyes shut tight as he bowed his head forward, pressing the heel of his hand against his temple.

-

“Mr. Wayne.” Superman’s brows furrowed. They’d started off so well. The steady beat of Bruce’s heart told him that he was being honest, and more importantly than that, he could remain calm. Then everything happened so quickly, anyone else would have missed the change. A kick of adrenaline, the shift of his scent, his dilating pupils. “Mr. Wayne!”

Superman called out sharply, and all at once he was on his feet. Bruce’s pulse was so loud in his ears. It drowned out even the ECG’s insistent beeping, ringing like the bass of a song that just kept getting faster and faster. He moved on instinct at first, trying to catch the other man’s attention, but no matter how many times he called out, Bruce never stirred. Slowly, gently, he slid an arm around the other man’s broad shoulders, trying to ground him with physical contact, the same way he had earlier that day. It was easy to cradle him against his chest, carefully running his hand down Bruce’s side.

And slowly, but surely, his pulse started to slow. 

-

There was an echo of a voice calling out his name and an incessant beeping noise that was driving Bruce up the wall and the pain got sharper, as if his own mind were attacking itself to keep him from remembering. It was all he could focus on until a small feeling started to creep through.

It wasn’t noticeable but it slowly grew until Bruce became aware of it, a little sliver of warmth that dissipated the pain in an ever-growing glow of serenity. With his extensive mental training, Bruce was able to grab on to that sliver and hold tight, using it as a life line to calm and soothe himself.

Pressing forward against Superman, Bruce didn’t realize what was happening, only that there was warmth and safety close by. His hand reached out, scrambling to find a hold without conscious thought, grabbing hold of the red cape and pulling himself closer.

Slowly, the pain was overcome and run out by the warmth and Bruce groaned quietly, eyes blinking open as he got his bearings back. When he realized he was in Superman’s arms, he stiffened a little but didn’t pull away, selfishly taking advantage of the physical comfort he was being given that he never had access to at any other time.

-

“I’m beginning to think you do like the cape.” Superman murmured, almost too softly to hear, but he didn’t pull away. He monitored Bruce’s pulse and respiration attentively, but they felt like shoddy indicators at best when the billionaire was worryingly slumped against him. It wasn’t a hardship, but Superman was willing to bet that the proud man would have preferred to be less vulnerable. Most proud men did. Superman wasn’t exempt. 

Slowly, he combed his fingers through Bruce’s hair, guided by what little he knew, a shot in the dark he was still hoping would connect. He hovered off the ground, legs tucked under him, like a particularly convenient pillow. 

-

Bruce frowned at Superman’s teasing but didn’t move away like his brain was shouting at him to do. Selfish. Superman was warm and solid and strong and Bruce wasn’t about to give that up. It brought back memories of his parents, good nights when they would all pile onto the couch and his father would read to them the classics like The Great Gatsby, Crime and Punishment, among others. It was a good memory that he wanted to cling to a little longer.

“Just… dizzy…” He mumbled in reply, letting his hand loosen but not let go of Superman’s cape, and he took in a slow, deep breath, “Might actually have to do that whole _rest_ thing for a bit…” It was the last thing he wanted to do, that he should do, he needed to figure out what happened during his lost time, figure out whatever was happening to him and fix it. That he couldn’t, was nothing short of irritating and weak. 

-

“You’re not a man who often listens to his doctors, are you, Mr. Wayne?” Superman asked, just a hint of amusement tinging his words. He honestly tried to stick to wry disappointment. He did a hell of a speech for kids and dentists.

He should have set Bruce back down. This wasn’t right. He was taking far too many liberties, but it had been a while since Clark had held anyone. Superman was untouchable, and Clark Kent was always too busy trying to shrink into his own skin to enjoy being in it. 

-

“Mm,” Bruce hummed quietly, not denying it in the least, “Did Alfred not give you the customary spiel at the hospital?” With a regretful sigh, Bruce sat up a bit, hand still holding onto the cape, and looked at Superman with guarded appreciation. He was treading on dangerous ground and he had to be careful. There was no way in hell he could afford to get caught up in any sort of… any sort of anything with Superman, no matter how appealing that was starting to look. The guy might not even have a dick, for all he knew.

“I owe you another ‘thank you’, remind me later, will you?” a little smile pulled at his mouth as he let himself get lost in those hypnotic and dangerous eyes.

-

“You can thank me by listening to your doctor.” Superman turned around, exasperation coloring his words, but it sounded helplessly fond even to his own ears. For a man who’d been through so much an so soon, Bruce was handling it remarkably. Humans, Superman thought with wonder, were so frequently underestimated. It didn’t hurt that Bruce Wayne had the most entrancing smile, like he was laughing at a secret only he knew.

Slowly, he guided Bruce back towards his bed, and in the time it took to blink, a blanket was draped over the billionaire’s considerable frame.

“Get some rest Mr. Wayne.” And if Superman took that moment to brush the man’s bangs out of his eyes, that was his business alone. He flew out of the room through the front door

-

Bruce was pretty good at reading people. A lifetime of training, from his parents teaching him as an infant and child, to his childhood and teenage years having to navigate the social system, courts, police, to his more formal training in the League of Shadows, had given him an almost superhuman ability to do so. Superman was a bit of an enigma but there was something like humanity there, someone with their feathers ruffled by an uncooperative patient, but also someone who seemed somewhat enamoured with said patient. It was both amusing and intriguing.

He let himself be guided back to the bed, his head barely hitting the pillow before there was a warm blanket covering him and a superhero hovering over him. Whatever he had been expecting, a gentle caress, a simple brushing of the hair away from his eyes, was not it. Paired with Superman’s words, it was just enough to soften Bruce’s features, the hard lines from his difficult past and lack of true affection with others smoothing out and, for a moment, he looked younger and more vulnerable.

Once alone, Bruce raised his hand, fingers following the same path that Superman’s had taken over his forehead. He sighed heavily and let his eyes close, determined,  _for once_ , to follow orders. 


	4. Shipping & Receiving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Superman and Batman meet and have a confrontation at Mannheim's warehouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is co-written with the lovely sonxfkrypton on tumblr. I'm doyoubleedxyouwill :) I put a little - between each section to delineate where each wrote. Hopefully I didn't mess it up.

The tests showed that there was a foreign substance in Bruce’s blood but all attempts at identification proved fruitless. It didn’t seem to be actively harming him and, after a couple of days, Bruce grew tired of sitting around doing desk work. He’d figured out that Mannheim had a signed contract from him to switch the security company but he couldn’t do anything about it without drawing notice to himself and tip the man off that he knew something was wrong. Whatever Mannheim was up to, it was clear that he didn’t want Bruce to know about it. Surreptitiously, Bruce made sure that one of his moles - who didn’t know who he was, obviously - was imbedded in the company at a reasonably high position so he wasn’t completely out of the loop.

It was how he became aware of a shipment coming in to the warehouse that evening, after hours. This was suspicious enough but the fact that the manifest, shipper, and driver for the trucks was blank meant something was definitely going on. Ignoring Alfred’s protests, Bruce suited up and made sure that he had an emergency shot of adrenaline set onto an automatic delivery system that was monitoring his vitals. If something went wrong like before, he’d get the shot and be able to escape to safety. In theory.

Perching on top of the building across the street, Bruce watched the two large trucks pull in and back up to the loading dock, a dozen or so men - far too many to be efficient - spilled out to stand around them. Security, it appeared, more oddities that needed to be investigated. Without a word, Batman jumped, cape snapping open into a glider allowing him to silently approach through the alley.

-

An earthquake in Sumatra had stolen Superman away from North America for a time, and news coverage of that took Clark Kent, too. Yet even as Mannheim took an unfortunate back seat, Clark still found himself flying by the skyscrapers of Gotham, to catch a glimpse of the imposing structure of Wayne Manor and its enthralling master. It helped to know that the billionaire was giving his recovery priority. He hardly left the house, and once or twice, Clark had been struck by the urge to stop by. When those moment’s passed, they left him feeling silly, but if he was being honest with himself, it was getting more and more difficult to talk himself out of doing something reckless.

So when he chose to survey Mannheim’s warehouse, it felt practically responsible in comparison.

Gotham’s smog trap was a far cry from the clear skies of Metropolis, and Superman was forced to descend to find a better vantage point. Even from the Heavens he could hear the telltale sounds of an active docking bay, and anything that had Mannheim operating in the cover of darkness was bound to interest him. Unfortunately, Superman hadn’t been the only on to think that.

He watched the Bat descend, and made his own. Superman’s expression was unreadable, a careful mask of professional detachment as he squared off against a potential ally. “Is this seat taken?”

But knowing Batman, this could go in a completely different direction. His feet never touched the ground. 

-

As soon as Batman landed, Superman appeared. He took a defensive stance, scowling as his eyes narrowed at the man.

“What are you doing here?” there was a pause as Bruce fought with himself, torn between gratitude and irritation. He couldn’t let Superman know that he was grateful for saving his life, that was Bruce, he was the Bat, and that made his decision for him. “Tired of destroying Metropolis and thought you’d give Gotham a try? Not gonna happen.”

Straightening up, Bruce’s hands clenched into fists, focused on Superman and not the men at the loading dock. There was a shout and gunshots rang out, bullets hitting the building beside him. Quickly, he jumped out of the way, throwing a couple of batarangs as he did, taking out the closest gunman by incapacitating him. With a grunt he hit the wall and didn’t stop, the rest of the men had been alerted and he had to act sparing only a cursory thought to Superman who he knew could take care of himself.

-

A ripple of anger cut through the Kryptonian’s features, twisting them into something that almost looked human for the barest of moments. Then it was gone again. Clark knew how unnerving it was when he put on the mask, perfect muscle control leaving his features as blank as the smooth perfection of marble. The coldness of a corpse, without the courtesy to die.

But arguments would have to wait. Gun fire broke out, and Superman hissed, “I thought you were supposed to be _good_ at stealth.”

He stopped, just in time to examine one of the bullets lodged in the and sped after the vigilante. “They’re armor piercing bullets,” he growled, almost like he wished he didn’t have to, but Superman could never afford such anger, not with the lives he balanced on hi shoulders.

He took to the skies, turning in the opposite direction as Batman did to clear out the rest of the warehouse. He had no trouble forcing open a door to step inside. 

-

Batman ignored the comment about his apparent lack of stealth, somehow biting back a retaliatory ‘I’m not the one dressed in god damn bright red and blue’ but gave a grunt of acknowledgment for the intel about the bullets. Not that he was planning on being reckless but he’d have to be extra cautious with those bullets.

It took almost no time at all to dispatch the men as they were not very well trained and Bruce had them tied up, a couple unconscious but breathing fine, next to the nearest truck. When he straightened and let out a breath there was a burning sort of pain in the bicep of his left arm. He had been grazed by a bullet and not even noticed until the adrenaline started to wind down. With a growl of irritation, the Bat headed to the loading dock, jumping up into the warehouse to see how Superman was getting on.

-

Superman had looked through the cargo manifests and found them wanting, the sort of thing that wouldn’t have gotten out of Metropolis without a stack of cash to oil the machinery. What grated on his nerves was that he couldn’t tell where they’d come from to begin with.

With a careless hand, he dropped the manifest clipboard and examined the recently delivered packages. Superman ripped the container lid off its hinges, with devil-may-care indifference. After all, he hadn’t been wrong. Stealth was  _Batman’s_  thing.

Lead lining had blocked his view of the contents of the boxes, but even the individual flasks within the boxes were covered in lead. Superman was tempted to shake them. 

“What is this?” He barked, sharper than he intended, and part of Superman hoped the Bat wouldn’t know.

-

Batman picked up the clipboard from the floor and gave it a quick scan, finding nothing useful. He was glad that his cowl hid his quirked eyebrow when Superman tore the lid off a crate but he stepped forward quickly to see what it was, not liking the anger in the man’s voice. Angry men did stupjd things and they couldn’t afford to be stupid.

The box was stacked with thick foam, each layer having an indent big enough to hold a flask. The fact that everything was lined with lead gave Batman pause, “I don’t know.” he answered truthfully, “Nothing good.”

Without further explanation, he took one of the flasks and touched the side of his cowl, activating the scanner hooked up to the super computer in the batcave. “Run full spectral analysis…” he wasnt hopeful of finding much, if it needed to be encased in lead they sure wouldn’t be sloppy enough to leave drips of whatever it was outside of the containment. “I’ll take -…” he cut himself off and looked at Superman, eyes narrowing, just catching himself before giving the guy details he didnt need to know, “I’ve got this under control. Go back to Metropolis.” Turning away, Bruce took two more flasks and tucked them into a hidden pocket in his cape before turning and heading towards the bay door.

-

There was a rush of displaced air, and Superman blocked off the vigilante’s escape, his mouth turned down in a severe scowl as he crossed his arms over his not inconsiderable chest. Super hearing had more benefits than most people considered. With an enemy like Batman, the more knowledge Superman could collect, the better. “Uranium enriched solvent, highly corrosive and more importantly, explosive. You aren’t taking that anywhere, Batman.”

He said the name like an insult, a hint of a snarl curling his lips before moving to withdraw them from the inside of the other man’s cloak. “This - _all_  of this is being returned to the proper authorities. It belongs in less dangerous hands.”

There was no point in taking the chemicals from Mannheim only to hand them over to a violent, unpredictable vigilante. The rapport he shared with Clark Kent was inconsequential now, not in the face of Batman’s obvious threat.

-

Batman pulled up short when Superman blocked him, his own lip curling in anger. Cursing super hearing, Bruce squared his shoulders and his hands clenched into fists at the very obvious implication of Superman’s words. The Batman couldn’t be trusted, he was dangerous. Though Bruce knew that he could be trusted he also knew that he /was/ dangerous but less dangerous than an alien with god-like powers who could destroy /everything/ if he chose to.

“Get out of my way.” he spat out, “I need to do a deeper analysis to figure out what Mannheim’s going to use them for. I’m not the one you need to worry about.”

It was then that Superman reached for him, intent on taking the flasks from his cloak. Batman wasn’t going to just stand by and allow that. Quickly, almost superhumanly fast, he batted Superman’s hand away at the same time his other hand pulled out the batclaw, firing it into the far wall so he could pull himself away. This wasn’t good. Bruce knew he was strong’ fast, capable but he wasnt stupid enough to think he had a chance against Superman without some sort of enhancements. Didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try. 

-

A guttural growl caught in Superman’s throat, and he disappeared in a blur of red and blue, coming to hover in the vigilante’s path. Batman was fast, he hated to admit, and a nagging voice in the back of his mind reminded him of how strong the man was as well. It was no wonder so many cape chaser assumed he was some kind of metahuman. It still wasn’t enough to help him now.

“Those flasks contains highly volatile chemicals. That’s all you need to know.” Batman wouldn’t harm an unarmed civilian, but that wasn’t enough to justify his possession of dangerous compounds. Batman certainly had the means to transform the materials into something far more hazardous, if his selection of tools was anything to go by.

“Prove that I don’t need to worry about you. Let the police handle this.” Superman ordered, though he disguised the request with the availability of choice. “Prove you’re not  _dangerous,_ Batman.”

-

Batman was forced to stop, perching on top of one of the stacks of crates, scowling at Superman as he quickly worked through his options. On the one hand he understood where Superman was coming from. He certainly didn’t want the stuff to fall into the wrong hands either. Though it was a hit to his pride, Bruce decided to go the diplomatic route, Superman wasn’t a complete enemy and there really was no way for him to get out unless he complied.

Taking the three flasks from his cape, Batman held them in his hand, close to his body, “They aren’t necessarily safe with the cops, let me tag the boxes so we can track them easily if Mannheim tries to take them back.”

Bruce kept the lead bottles close to his chest, not willing to part with them until he got his own concession from Superman. He was stubborn and more than willing to wait for what he wanted. This really was the best outcome for both of them, Bruce could track the shipment if necessary and he got Superman to trust him, if only a little. It would be interesting to see how he reacted, if he was as smart as he was strong.

-

Superman made a noise in the back of his throat like he was impatient. The Man of Steel wasn’t used to needing to wait, and even if his ma raised him better, this was far more time at a crime scene than he normally spent, and the police still hadn’t made an appearance. Superman was willing to concede that Batman had a made a valid point, even if it pointed to something less than stellar. “Then hand them over to the Metropolis Police.”

At least  they could be trusted. Far too pointedly, he said, “If Gotham had better protection, this wouldn’t be a problem.”

-

The Metropolis Police. Bruce scoffed and was about to say something about all precincts being corrupt when Superman continued. That was a low blow and he wasnt going to just stand by and take that kind of idiocy from the likes of Superman. He had saved Bruce twice now, yes, but implying that Batman wasn’t able to take care of his city when Metropolis had nearly been razed to the ground by Zod? That was too much.

Though he was fuming he never let it show on his face any more than the usual scowl and he kept his voice low as he replied, “Like you, I suppose? Want a bigger target for the next round of bounty hunters coming for you? Sure would be nice to have both cities destroyed…”

-

Superman grit his jaw, grinding it together with the force that could leave dust of boulders, but for a moment, his own pulse was too loud in his ears. There was something about Batman that made him seem so much larger than he was. With super vision, Superman could see where the shadows ended and the cloak began, but that didn’t change how Batman seemed to take over the room, to turn a filthy crate into a stage worthy of one who commanded so much fear.

“I stopped them from hurting more people,” Superman whispered, voice twisted into a threatening hiss. “You spend your nights hurting more.”

-

Batman hurt more people? Was that what Superman honestly thought? “Sir, police have been dispatched to your location and should arrive in five minutes.” Alfred’s tinny, distorted voice spoke to him through the small integrated speakers in the cowl but Bruce didn’t acknowledge him, knowing Alfred knew what was going on.

/Too much for your sensibilities, as it were./

Bruce growled as that thought with a quick flash of pain shot through his head. Not knowing where the thought had come from, he jumped a little irrationally to anger, “I spend my nights /saving/ people!” his voice was much louder than usual and the distortion from the voice modulator made it extra aggressive and gravely, “You accuse me of hurting people when your actions resulted in the deaths of /thousands/. Don’t get all high and mighty with me, /Superman/, at the end of the day you know damn well you’ve got more blood on your hands than I ever will.”

-

Superman took a step back, involuntarily, the blood draining from his features. It was almost impossible to see against the light of the moon, and for a moment, Batman’s strength made sense. Criminals saw the worst of themselves in the darkness. There was a reason you weren’t supposed to stare into the Abyss.

He met Batman’s gaze steadily, looking through those unnerving white lenses, as if he could find fault in what he couldn’t read. Superman had no words, but Clark did.

“I know.”

He closed his eyes, hearing the approaching sirens about a block away. Without another word, he turned and flew through the damaged wall. 

-

Bruce wasn’t expecting Superman to step back let alone back down. He didnt have time to temper his anger before the other was gone and the sirens grew louder. “Shit…” he cursed under his breath, jumping into action. Certainly wouldn’t do to be here when the boys in blue did.

Leaping from his perch, Bruce placed the flasks back into the crate, keeping true to his word to Superman. He would find out what they were being ysed for some other way, for now he needed to get out of there and do some investigating. Bruce Wayne might have better luck than the Bat in this line of inquiry.

He gave a final look towards Metropolis, hoping for a final glance of Superman. When he was met with naught but clouds and a starless sky, Bruce set his jaw and disappeared into the night.


	5. Fix It & Forget It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bruce facilitates Clark's capture for Mannheim and then rescues himself and Clark overcoming the mind-control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is co-written with the lovely sonxfkrypton on tumblr. I'm doyoubleedxyouwill :) I put a little - between each section to delineate where each wrote. Hopefully I didn't mess it up.

The next morning, Bruce went in to his office, putting in the obligatory face time so people didn’t forget he was still alive, still ran the place. He did his usual rounds of schmoozing and shit talk with Gotham’s big wigs as well as the boys from state and federal levels. Nothing serious, just keeping tabs as per usual.

While he was there, he had Alfred rerun the analysis of the crates and flasks from the night before, hoping they might pick up something that they missed. He also went through his recordings, headphones in, listening to Superman voice and his own speaking the cold hard truth to each other. The truth? Perhaps only part of the truth, one section of the truth, and that’s what ate at Bruce. He hadn’t lied but he hadn’t been entirely fair either. Superman /did/ save people and as long as he was true and faithful to humanity there really wasn’t a problem. It was that ‘as long as’ that worried Bruce. That kept him up nights trying to think of some way to beat the man with god-like powers.

The phone rang and Bruce paused his recordings to answer.

“Mr. Wayne? Mr. Mannheim is here to see you on urgent business.”

Bruce frowned, unscheduled meetings usually weren’t a good thing, “Thank you, send him in and bring some coffee for us…” with little fanfare, Bruce made sure his computer wasn’t open on anything sensitive before coming around his desk to meet his guest.

-

Bruno Mannheim walked into Wayne Enterprises like it was his name on the front door. For a man who was supposed to ave the police and district attorneys from both metropolis and Gotham crawling up his ass, he was remarkably calm. Peasant, one could even say, though no one wanted to. “Brucie,” he greeted, quietly reinforcing the drugs that pumped through the his shiny little toy’s system. “Thank you so much for all your hard work. I really appreciate it.”

It had taken a lot of money to lose the evidence that tied Mannheim to the scene, and earlier that morning, Bruce Wayne had given an impassioned speech about his partner’s innocence, and their dedication to finding the real culprit of the mysterious smuggling ring. Mannheim’s enemies would never believe it, but people were beginning to view the ‘legitimate businessman’ in a better light.

Alfred hadn’t been wrong. He was Gotham’s favorite son.

“I just have a few more modifications to our earlier _agreement_  to make. You understand, don’t you?” The mob boss drawled, guiding Bruce back to his desk, but not before helping himself to his coffee. Only the finest was served to Wayne Enterprise’s CEO.

But across the river, in Metropolis, Clark Kent had watched the proceedings with something akin to horror. Bruce Wayne’s inexplicable behavior had sent the news world on fire. Clark had jumped at the chance to get an interview with Bruce, and after a heated (or an extremely passive-aggressive and incredibly underhanded and snarky) debate with Lois, he’d come up victorious. Only because Lois wanted to attack Mannheim’s office in Metropolis.

Clark went straight for Wayne Enterprise, and triggered one of the most advanced security systems on the lanet.

A notification appeared on Bruce’s compute, just as Mannheim was detailing the changes he wanted made, and when video feed popped up featuring the intruder, his expression soured. “That sonuvabitch,” he grumbled under his breath. “That asshole broke into our warehouse. Who is he? Who the fuck does he think he is?”

Clark had been decent enough to knock out two surveillance cameras. He just hadn’t been able to avoid the rest.

-

The thanks from Mannheim rankled Bruce a bit but he was fully in his role as Dutiful Businessman and he took it in stride with a nod and a quick downplay, what were business partners for if not helping each other out of sticky situations? He raised an eyebrow when Mannheim mentioned more changes but didn’t protest, simply grabbed a coffee and headed back to his desk.

“Of course, now… just let me bring up the relevant files….” Bruce clicked away on his mouse and then froze when the security alert popped up. His brow furrowed when he recognized Clark Kent, the man who was apparently bad at following orders given to him by dangerous men, entering his building. “Hmm… That’s a reporter from the Daily Planet, Clark Kent, he’s been giving me some trouble as of late…” his head tilted to the side slightly as he narrowed his eyes, “Seems to think he’s got some dirt on me from what I could tell but he’s got nothing or he wouldn’t be… trying to break in here. Idiot….” 

Mannheim leaned in close, arm over the back of Bruce’s chair, hand pressed against the desk, holding himself up. Bruce couldn’t place it, but the smell was obnoxious, day old cigars, salami maybe? Whatever it was, he leaned away a bit, not caring if the man noticed or not. “Wait, the Daily Planet, you said? That’s Metropolis…” Bruce just nodded as Mannheim continued, too sure of himself and the programming that Bruce had gone through to censor himself, speaking far too freely, “Brucie, I want you to.. detain our friend Mr. Kent… I’ve got plans for him…. have him brought to the warehouse, you come too, we’re going to set a trap for Superman.”

Bruce’s eyes widened a little, shocked, trying to pass it off as impressed, “Not a problem, care to share the details?” he asked as he started typing quickly, sending text orders to his head of security to take Clark into their custody and transport him to the warehouse. He didn’t even think twice about it, knowing his orders would be followed out to the T, much like Mannheim with Bruce.

“I’ve gotten my hands on a little gemstone that Superman won’t like very much… we’re gonna put Mr. Kent in a room with that rock, get a message to Superman to come save his precious little Metropolitan reporter and then _BAM_ , he will be too weak to fight and we can take him.”

The plan sounded solid but as he watched his men corner Clark he frowned. Something was amiss but he couldn’t put his finger on it. “Come along, Brucie, you’ll ride with me.” The two men went out and got into Mannheim’s car, his driver pulling away after Bruce’s reinforced, bullet-proof van drove past, carrying Clark and his security detail, heading towards the warehouse.

-

It was a long shot at best, especially considering his rocky relationship with Bruce Wayne (to put things mildly), but there was more to Bruce than he’d initially postulated. A lot more. And maybe the memory of the other man tucked against Superman’s chest had stayed with him for longer than it should have, but there was no way Clark could see someone of Bruce’s caliber willingly shacking up with Mannheim. There was more to this, he was sure, and somehow Bruce’s mysterious condition tied into Mannheim’s schemes. He just needed to figure out how.

Clark wanted to find a way to corner him and talk to him, absolutely certain that one conversation could clear everything up. He had advantages that far outmatched most men, and normally they were enough when dealing with run of the mill troubles. Unfortunately, he heard Wayne’s security team arrive with the elevator - and spotted the camera before super speed became an option.

“Listen, fellas, I’m just here to speak to Mr. Wayne,” he started, shy and hesitant, shoulders slumping with concern. He didn’t expect the guards to try and subdue him. The scuffle ended well, for them, because Clark couldn’t let them hurt themselves when they took him in, but he was surprised to hear that Bruce had requested he betaken.

He was taken to a site that was becoming far too familiar. Mannheim’s warehouse.

“This is a mistake, guys, please,” He protested as they took his bag, and his phone. Then Clark’s complaints abruptly cut off as they entered the room. A large, scoured crystal sat in the center of the basement. The effects were immediate.

The men from Wayne Enterprise refused to even flinch, though apprehension crossed their features. It was difficult to protest when the CEO of the company was along for the ride with them. Clark was dragged to the far wall and secured with plastic handcuffs. He couldn’t even lift his head.

“Is that everything, Mr. Wayne?” His Head of Security asked.

-

Bruce and Mannheim went down to the room together, ahead of Clark and the security team, Mannheim apparently wanting to brag and show off to Gotham Royalty. The piece of kryptonite was on a small pedestal, under a glass dome for a modicum of protection and Bruce couldn’t take his eyes off it. He’d been trying to get his hands on some for a long time, having it would make the Superman problem decidedly _not_ a problem. Mannheim was yammering away about how he’d gotten it, obviously embellishing the story to ridiculous extremes and Bruce just nodded and made impressed noises every now and then to feign interest. 

When the men came in with Clark, Bruce turned and his eyebrow knit together at what he saw. It was almost as if Clark had been hit suddenly with a 2x4. One moment he was whining about it being a mistake and the next he could barely walk. It was a little unusual but Bruce remembered the party and how he’d been so easily cowed with the tiniest of threats, perhaps a larger, more substantial threat was more than the poor guy could handle. Who knew, maybe he had anxiety or something, it could be a panic attack, he supposed. Whatever it was, Bruce didn’t like it.

Ignoring Mannheim, who was still talking about his conquest, Bruce went over to Clark and knelt down beside him, “That’ll be all, Riker,” he dismissed the team and gently reached out to take hold of Clark’s chin, bringing his head up so he could see into his eyes, “Clark? I need you to focus… look at me….” 

Clark’s skin seemed pale and his eyes were far too dull to be healthy but Mannheim didn’t seem to care. “That punk gonna puke? I don’t want him t’puke in here… hey! Get a god damn bucket or something for him…” Bruce glared at him as one of Mannheim’s men ran to find something for Clark.

“Something’s wrong with him, Mannheim, I think he’s in shock… he should go to the hos-…” 

“Don’t be an idiot, Bruce, he’s _bait_. It doesn’t matter if he’s sick, he just needs to be alive for Superman to get over here…”

Bruce turned back to Clark, still holding his cheek, and frowned, this was wrong. 

-

There was chattering above him. Someone rushed in with an old rusted bucket, but Clark couldn’t focus on it to save his life. He turned into Bruce’s palm, almost instinctively. It was cool against his feverish skin, and for a moment, that was the only thing that mattered. 

His glasses were falling down his face again, as a cold sweat broke out across his brow.  He tried to focus, but is vision blurred in and out. One moment he was looking at the fine lines in Bruce’s epidermis, the next, everything was a hazy blur.

Yet what Clark struggled with was _why._  It didn’t make sense for Bruce to be acting like this. Regardless of his issues with Clark, regardless of his ridiculous reputation, he was never malicious. 

“Please, Mr. Wayne, you don’t have to do this.” he whispered. “Superman isn’t a threat.” He sounded far too hopeful, even to his own ears. He didn’t want Bruce to see him as one, not after everything.

-

Clark’s voice was thin but hopeful and Bruce didn’t quite understand why. He’d been nothing but a complete prick to the poor guy and all Clark had been trying to do was his job and the right thing. He didn’t deserve this kind of treatment just for being an idiot. He was an innocent idiot, one of the ones that Bruce had vowed to protect whether they were from Gotham or not. That vow was everything.

“Quiet, Kent, you’ll be alright, I’ll get you out of this…” Bruce’s tone was soft, hoping to reassure the man that he would be true to hia word. Gently, he move his hand, making sure Clark’s head didn’t drop sharply and atood to face Mannheim, eyes dark and expression serious, “I’m taking Clark.” he stated firmly, watching Mannheim’s men carefully.

Mannheim’s face screwed up into something ugly as he stepped forward and pointed threateningly at Bruce chest, “You’ll do no such thing, Wayne, he stays here.”

There was a throb of pain in his head but Bruce ignored it as he pulled out his phone and tapped the button to call the nearest driver to come to his location, notifying Alfred in the process. “No, you’re not listening. Clark is coming with me. Now. You’ll have to find some other way to get Superman here, you’re not using Clark.” the pain seemed to get stronger but Bruce forced himself to focus, he had to, for Clark’s sake.

Mannheim was sputtering with rage, not understanding why his perfect toy wasn’t doing as he was told and Bruce ignored him thoroughly as he pulled out a small pocket knife to cut the zipties around Clark’s wrists. “Clark, can you walk?” if he needed to, Bruce would be able to get the guy out of there but it would be easier if he could walk himself. 

-

_Find some other way to get Superman here._

There was something oddly satisfying about that. It wasn’t Bruce’s ties with Superman that made him act, but rather Clark’s helplessness. Bruce was braver than he appeared, and this was just another sliver of proof, as if the fire hadn’t been enough. Why Bruce bothered hiding his integrity at all was beyond him, but that wasn’t his business.

“I can try.” With the kryptonite leaving his head foggy and heavy, Cark didn’t have time to worry about why Bruce didn’t like Superman, but he did have a second to consider how nice his name sounded when Bruce said it. He could barely lift his arms, forcing Bruce to move around him to get to his hands where they were bound behind his back.

That was all the time Mannheim needed to make his decision. "You’ve made a grave mistake,” he sneered, as he cocked his gun, pressing the barrel against Bruce’s skull. The rest of his team followed suit. If they didn’t have their guns trained on Bruce, they were aimed at the reporter. Clark tensed visibly by his side. “Smith, Malone - cuff ‘em.”

As his men made quick work of Bruce, taking away his knife before he did, Mannheim hissed, “Don’t worry, Brucie. You’re not a lost cause yet.”

Bruce was pushed into the dirt unceremoniously, and Clark let out a sympathetic hiss. Still, even with the door closed between them and their captors, he hear Mannheim snarl, “ _Get that sonuvabitch Strange on the line, he swore this wouldn’t happen.”_

And they were alone.

Clark curled his knees into his chest, but his breath was coming in labored rasps. He shut his eyes, trying to fight back a wave of nausea, and it was only when it passed that he dared speak. “You know, Mr. Wayne… I’m beginning to think you attract trouble.”

It was a joke, a tired one, and through red-rimmed eyes like he’d been crying (as opposed to heat vision which he feared he wouldn’t be able to control now dammit), Clark tried to smile.

-

Bruce stepped closer when Clark raised his arms part way, dropping to one knee and wrapping the man in a facsimile of a hug to pull him up. The cold steel of a gun pressing to his head made him freeze, his teeth gritting together as he was pulled away from the reporter. His hands were ziptied behind his back and he let out a grunt when he hit the floor, rolling to his side so he could sit up next to Clark. With their arms pressing together, a show of solidarity and hopefully giving Clark a bit of comfort, Bruce glared at the slamming door that left a ringing in his ears.

His head was throbbing now causing him to wonder about the substance they fpund in him before and the words from Mannheim confirmed it. He would have to figure it out later, right now Clark was the priority and the last thing he expected from the guy who looked like death warmed over was a joke. Bruce rolled his eyes a little and turned his head to hide the little smile as he snorted quietly, “I might attract it, Mr. Kent, but you appear to actively seak it out…. Try to keep your breathing slow and even, for me, okay? It’ll help.” he didn’t want to bring up anything that might make Clark feel more panicked, needed to keep the guy calm as he worked to get them out, keep him conscious. He’d be able to carry Clark out if it came down to that but Bruce had a feeling there were more guts in Clark than the guy himself knew. “So, got tired of working for breadcrumbs at The Planet? Came to ask for a writing job or something at Wayne Enterprises?”

As he spoke, Bruce leaned forward and pulled his right leg back, pushing his hips forward allowing him to acces the small Swiss army knife in his shoe. Could never be too prepared.

-

It was almost embarrassing, how much Clark needed to hear that advice. If he wasn’t careful, he’d forget he needed to breathe. That wouldn’t do his civilian identity any favors, and Clark didn’t plan to stop using it any time soon. Or so he’d like to think. The air felt thick and heady, like the K had managed to contaminate it as well. It didn’t matter that it was all psychological, things were going to get so much worse. Palpitations first, then muscle cramps and myalgia. Once the seizures started, well, Clark wasn’t going to be around to hear Batman say ‘I told you so.’

But he couldn’t let Bruce know that. He hadn’t given up yet.

“Clark, please.” He whispered, licking his lips and straining for a smile. There was a blister on the inside of his mouth. That was only going to get worse, too. “Really appreciate what you did back there. It was brave… Even if I think you’d only hire me for the satisfaction of firing me.”

He pressed his face against the wall, cheek flat against the cold as he closed his eyes. He blindly searched along the wall for a sharp edge, something he could try to weaken the plastic restraints, even a little. “Don’t worry, Batman will be here soon. He likes to yell at me whenever I show up in Gotham. Call it our working relationship.”

-

Bruce chuckled as Clark tried to push through his fear and the physical manifestations of it. He knew it was no easy task, his training with the League of Shadows and experience with Scarecrows fear gas had shown him that clearly enough in the past. The reporter was definitely stronger than his bumbling awkwardness portrayed. 

“Beginning to think it was stupid not brave, Clark, certainly isn’t turning out in my favour, now is it?” he teased lightly, hoping to keep Clark in a positive frame of mind as he worked on their escape. He had to lean to the side to get the knife, pressing against Clark for a moment as he made quick work on his binds. As soon as his hands were free, Clark started to tip over and Bruce quickly reached out to grab the front of his shirt to pull him back up, frowning at the comment about Batman. Batman wouldn’t be showing up anytime soon, working relationship with Clark or not, “Hey now, I know I’m not the Bat but that’s no reason to run away, I promise I’ll take better care of you than him…”

Indulging himself for a moment, Bruce pulled Clark close, gently, watching him carefully in case it caused him distress instead of comfort. He could always say he was just getting at the ties, if he wanted to lie about it in the future, but he took more liberties, keeping Clark close to his chest and wrapping his arms around the man, his cheek nuzzling against the man’s hair. Clark’s skin was hot, he could feel it through his suit and it worried him, he needed to get him out of here and bring his stress levels down. A quick cut to the strap and Clark’s hands were free, Bruce’s coming to rest on the man’s back and nape of his neck, holding him securely. “You’ll be okay, Clark… trust me." 

-

Clark drifted. He didn’t even know he’d started, but consciousness slipped through his fingers. He’d lost only a handful of minutes, but he still awoke with a jolt, to find his face tucked into the warmth of Bruce Wayne’s shoulder. His shirt was smooth beneath his cheek, the smell of his cologne tickling his nose as Clark turned into his neck, his breath tickling the other man’s skin. When Bruce spoke, he could feel his throat rumbling with every word, and in that moment, Clark believed him. He suspected Bruce Wayne could make anyone believe in him.

“Oh. How did you…?” There was something fundamentally wrong about this picture. Maybe it was the fact that Bruce had managed to get free before him, but Clark’s brain refused to make the connection. It felt like he was looking at the pieces of a puzzle through a fog, and all he needed was to rearrange them to exposes the bigger picture. He just - he just _couldn’t._

“I’m okay, I’m okay.” He tried for a smile, tasted blood on his tongue. “It’s better than it looks. My physician always said I needed more sun.”

There was blood on his tongue. Clark couldn’t stop now. He couldn’t let Bruce face them on his own, not after he’d agreed to trust him. He got to his feet, letting his hands drag over the strong lines of Bruce’s chest. He sent the kryptonite a dirty look,  before suggesting, “Maybe you should take that away from Mannheim. I’ll see what I can do with the door.”

-

The pain in Bruce’s head threw him off-balance just enough that he couldn’t control the shiver that ran through him when he felt Clark’s warm breath on his throat. He’d forgotten how good that felt, how sensitive that bit of him could be. It was almost too real to deal with at the moment, especially when getting out of there was the priority.

Clark’s little jokes were endearing, in a mildly annoying but delightful sort of way, something that Bruce might have been able to get used to if he had anything resembling a normal life. It was a shame really. A damn shame. 

He helped Clark stand, hands hovering for a moment, definitely _not_ distracted by the feel of strong hands along his chest, making sure that the reporter wasn’t going to keel over. If Clark wanted to try the door, that was fine with Bruce, they didn’t have much time, Mannheim would have cameras in the room and they would have seen them standing. Not much time at all. “Of course, Clark, knock yourself out… well _don’t_ knock yourself out, please, we’ve still got to get ourselves out of here.” Talk about lame jokes. 

Bruce examined the glass dome over the kryptonite, trying to see how to release it. He ran his fingers along the lip of the top of the platform until he felt the small indent. “Bingo.” pushing it, the glass turned and opened, and Bruce quickly slipped the small green stone into his pocket as he headed to the door to see how Clark had gotten on, ready to step in and either pick the lock or kick it down, whatever needed to be done. 

-

It was either him or Bruce who’d have to deal with the kryptonite, and Clark was sorely under-prepared to handle an obstacle of that magnitude. He figured stealing it back from Bruce would be easier than stealing it from Mannheim. Or better yet, he could convince Bruce to destroy it, maybe urge him to trust Superman. Just not now. He had his own issues to deal with.

The reporter stood in front of the locked door for far too long, his grip on the handle. He was farther from the kryptonite, but it was enough to gather the last of his fading will. A concentrated beam of heat vision dug through the locking mechanism, softening liquid just enough that even a human could push open the door.

“It’s open,” he said, a beat too late, but there was genuine relief in his voice before Clark stumble through the door. For a moment, his knees buckled, and he pressed a fist into his eyes as he leaned against the corridor wall.

“Oh, yeah. Not knock out. I’m gonna have to try that one.” Clark mumbled, laughing despite everything, albeit softly. He could be snide at himself because he didn’t want to give into his own fears. 

When Bruce arrived, Clark gave his shoulder a quick squeeze, before suggesting, “We should split up. They’ll have a harder time finding us.”

And that was a terrible idea for to civilians, but maybe if he got far enough from the K, Superman could actually be of service. 

-

Bruce smiled lightly placing his hand on Clark’s waist as he looked at the man incredulously. “You must be joking… I’m not leaving you like this… They’ll recapture you in a second. No, come on, this way, I know a short cut….” what a ridiculous thing to suggest and Bruce chalked it up to the reporter’s nerves affecting his better judgement. Clark had better have better judgement than that, if he didn’t Bruce wasn’t sure how he’d managed to survive this long in the world.

Ignoring protests, Bruce slid his arm around Clark’s middle and pulled him up, headimg towards the nearest service exit. He could hear the guards shout and cursed quietly under his breath, wishing they had more time. They rounded the corner and were met with two guards who’d been in the room with them before and Bruce jumped into action.

Pushing Clark against the wall, he met the quickest guard with a knee to the gut, doubling him over as he grabbed the second guy’s gun and as he punched him in the face, his thumb flipped the safety on. A couple more punches and he was down and Bruce grabbed Clark and started jogging, pulling the reporter along with him, “Try and keep up, we’re almost there… Just a little further…” it had been so much easier with his batgear but as plain ole Bruce it was nearly tedious, thankless work. 

-

Clark sputtered, his pride unfairly stung as he tried to send Bruce the sharpest glare he could manage when his hair was falling into his eyes and everything blurred around his glasses. There was something about strange men from Gotham that really, really kicked you in the teeth.

Then Bruce approached him and a surge of dizziness came with him. If it gave Clark an excuse to lean just a little too heavily against the other man, at least Bruce didn’t seem overly burdened. He liked to think it had everything to do with the kryptonite in his pocket and not the steady grip around his waist, but Clark wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. 

Worse, Clark decided, as he was unceremoniously shoved into a wall. His glasses fumbled off his face, and he stumbled to catch them, giving himself an excuse to hide his face. He’d have to be careful, make sure nothing was too obvious - except Bruce was taking care of that all on his own. Clark’s eyes widened in surprise as the billionaire made quick work of Mannheim’s lackeys. Yet as one started to get back to his feet, Clark let out a careful blast of cold wind, knocking the man off balance. 

Muscle memory took over, and Clark was far too accustomed to running for his life than he’d like to say. “How did you do that?” He wheezed, as they finally reached the service exit, the door banging open to reveal gloriously warm sunlight. “Mr. Wayne, that was - how?”

Not that Clark had much time to catch his breath. They were racing for Bruce’s car. 

-

Bruce didn’t notice the one man try to get up, one of the few times he would have been hit, not knowing he owed Clark another ‘thank you’. He grabbed Clark’s arm as they ran and shoved the reporter into the back seat, following quickly. The driver didn’t need to be told to hurry, he was smart enough to know if your client -especially Bruce Wayne - was running you got out of there fast. That’s what he was paid for.

Safely on the way to the mansion, Bruce turned to Clark, only slightly out of breath, checking to see how he was doing. “Now then, how’d I do that? I’m not just a pretty face,” he laughed quietly and shook his head, “Took karate when I was younger is all… But how are you? Do you feel any better? You look…” _like shit_ was left unspoken as he reached up to brush Clark’s hair from his face, his expression sobering. 

-

It was better, in as much as it could be. The sun shone through the car’s tinted windows. Clark had thrown himself into the backseat, folding long limbs all around the back seat. They were both tall men with far too much muscle mass, but they made it fit, maybe because Clark was so insistently pressed against Bruce’s side.

“I can see the headlines now: _Bruce Wayne - not just a pretty face.”_ Clark whispered, shaking his head, but he didn’t make much of an effort to move away. Bruce had a nice shoulder, as well as a pretty face. If Clark could just reach into his pocket and throw that K out the window, it might get even nicer. That was probably answer enough to Bruce’s question.

“This would be such a good story, if they hadn’t taken my recorder. And my bag… And my metro pass.” That one, more than anything else disappointed Clark. He had that pass for years.

-

“Shh, Clark…” Bruce pursed his lips to try and hide his amused smile, not wanting to encourage him. Since Clark didn’t seem to be inclined to lean away, Bruce decided that he needed to be closer and he turned into the other a bit, wrapping his arm around the reporters shoulder. With a small sigh, Bruce made the decision to call one of his cohorts to try and get Clark’s bag back. He didn’t know why that was such a big deal but then Clark wasn’t exactly on the ball at the moment.

“Just rest, we’re almost home…” The words slipped out before he could stop them, but the hesitation was only for a moment and Bruce reached out again to brush Clark’s hair back, hoping to distract both of them from the slip.

They pulled into the mansion and the driver got out to open the doors. They got inside, Bruce keeping Clark close, supporting him as much as he could. Once inside, he got Alfred to take Clark to the guest bedroom while he quickly took the rock down to the batcave, setting it in his lead-lined safe to deal with later. 

Back upstairs, Bruce came into bedroom to check on Clark, “Can I get you anything? Just ask, we’ve probably got it…." 

-

What he needed was to get out of Bruce Wayne’s car, and rethink a strategy to collect that final bit of kryptonite. As always, he had to wonder if the direct route would work, if Superman could knock on Bruce’s door and ask to see the stone for the sake of international security. It required a lot of consideration and contemplation, and he couldn’t keep going like this. Bruce wouldn’t know how to react once t he seizures started, and worse, no one would be able to control Superman’s strength. Clark was going to just… Just close his eyes for a bit. His last thought was an amendment.

Let the record show that Bruce Wayne had really, _really_ nice shoulders.

The next time he awoke, he was surrounded by sheets with an impossible thread count, wearing a pair of pajamas that cost more than the most expensive suit Clark owned. The sun was setting over the horizon, but Clark’s head was clearer than it had been all day.

“Hey,” he said, slowly scrubbing a hand over his face. He could still feel his suit, carefully tucked somewhere private, the psionic cloth hidden from everyone else but someone who knew where to find it. “How long’ve I been out?”

-

Bruce had spoken before he realized Clark was out and he frowned lightly. It took almost no time for Alfred and him to get Clark out of his suit - so cheap, how could he stand the feel of that fabric?? - and into some pyjamas and under the covers. He sat in the chair next to the bed, working on his tablet, trying to figure out what was going on with Mannheim and hia memory. When he found the rather largr chuck of change missing and didn’t know where it had gone, Bruce grew mire concerned. It was clear Mannheim had done something to him and that it was to do with whatever was in his blood but he didnt know _what._

Clark stirred and Bruce sent a quick message to Alfred to bring water and food before setting aside his tablet. He leaned forward, eye scrutinizing the reporters face, getting a read on him. He certainly looked a lot better than before which was a relief and Bruce smiled lightly when they made eye contact, “Only an hour or so, how do you feel?" 

-

Clark smile because Bruce did. He had such an honestly nice smile. Clark couldn’t understand why he spent so much of his time acting like a friggin tool. 

“Like I had an altercation with a train and won.” Clark said, scratching the back of his head. His hearing had returned, and once more, Superman was reconnected with the rest of the world. Metropolis was quiet. The rest of the world would never be, but Clark was hard pressed to find a reason to go. He told himself that it was just because he needed a better excuse to shake Bruce Wayne’s watchful eye. That might have been true, but it still felt flimsy as an excuse.

“How are you feeling?” He asked softly, but with honest concern, though Clark was far more _aware_  of the stylized Wayne crest that decorated the furniture than he wanted to be. “I’m going out on a limb here and saying what you did this morning was under duress?” 

-

Bruce couldn’t help chuckling and shaking his head, not wanting to wound Clark’s ego by questioning the ‘and winning’ bit, he’d let him have it. He sobered at the question and licked his lips, giving himself some time to think. Whatever Clark was, he was still a reporter and Bruce didn’t want any of this in the paper. Or as little as possible, in any case. “Yes and it’s terribly unfortunate you got caught up in the cross-fire, Clark, you’ll understand if I don’t go into details, but you can rest assured that it’s… going to be taken care of.”

It was a pretty weak reassurance and any reporter worth his salt would know it but bruce had to hope Clark would drop it for now. Thankfully he was saved by Alfred brining in a tray with water, juice, tea, fruits and veggies, and an assortment of healthy finger foods. “Ah, Alfred, thank you… Eat something, it’ll help you with your strength… If you want, I can make a recommendation to a specialist to take a look at you, if you’re low on vitamin D, there are things they can do for that.”

Was he stalling? Sure, but it wasn’t like he was keeping Clark from an important job that would put other people’s lives at risk so he could be forgiven. Who could blame him wanting to keep the guy around a little longer with a face like that and those eyes even with the dorky glasses... 

-

“Thank you,” Clark told Alfred politely, ducking his head in nipping the inside of his cheek, a nervous gesture that he couldn’t quite help, as easy as pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He kept his head down, not wanting to risk any chance that the butler would recognize him when he wasn’t hovering in the air. It helped that his ears had gone red. Superman’s ears usually didn’t.

He helped himself to an apple, casting a wary glance at Bruce. If there was one thing Columbia had taught him, it was to appreciate when he was being stone-walled. Bruce would have been just as helpful if he’d said ‘No comment.’

“Mr. Wayne, I think I’ve got enough for my story, first-hand account of a hostage situation and all,” he said, almost completely nonchalant. “But please, for everyone’s sake, get some help.”

As much as he loathed to admit it, Batman had made quite an impact on him, and Clark couldn’t help but recall the vigilante’s warning now. “If you can’t go to the police, then there are other means to try. You can’t take Mannheim lightly.”

-

Clark was the exact opposite of the usual arm candy that Bruce took out on the town to keep his reputation up. The guy was not only incredibly awkward, goofy, and smart but he was bashful as well. It was enthralling and Bruce couldn’t take his eyes off the way Clark dipped his head and pushed his glasses up.

Being distracted by Clark’s shyness was interrupted by him imploring Bruce to get help and it was the ‘other means to try’ that really piqued his interest. What was Clark suggesting? He had to know for sure. “Other means?” Bruce affected his most innocent expression, head tilting to the side as he reached out and took an orange slice from the plate, “I know it’s a lot, Clark, I do, I… it’s… complicated.” maybe he would accept that even though it was as thin as the first attempt. 

-

“Private investigators, or personal guards if you have to? If you have a spare yacht handy, now might be a good time to take a tour of the Atlantic.” Clark said, only partially joking as he nudged his tray of snacks closer to Bruce. After all, the billionaire had been known to throw extravagant week-long parties from time to time. Yet somehow, that idea sat wrong with what Clark knew of the man. He chalked it up to wishful thinking. “You might be able to find a cape or two willing to help out.”

He kept his tone carefully modulated, almost humorous when he added, “And hey, if that job offer’s still standing, I make a pretty mean body guard, Mr. Wayne.”

-

All of Clark’s suggestions were reasonable and if Bruce were any sort of normal he would probably do most if not all of them. As it was, he was the best investigator he knew, could take care of himself just fine, though he wouldn’t actually be able to leave, it might be the excuse he needed to give himself some space. The suggestion to get help from ‘a cape’, well, he _was_ a cape.

Bruce smiled patiently and took another piece of orange, chewing thoughtfully before sighing. “You’re a good guy, you know that? I, hm.… I appreciate your concern and I mean that sincerely but please know that I’ll be okay.“ he needed to distract Clark and fast.

Standing and moving to the side of the bed, Bruce moved the tray away so he could sit on the edge of the bed, eyes locked on Clark’s as one hand gently covered his closest hand, the other brushing back an errant strad of hair. “Can you trust me on this, Clark?” his expression was open and hopeful with a bit of flirtation just around the edges that he hoped would embarrass the man into capitulating much as he has that night at the party with the intimidation. 

-

Like a switch had been flipped, Clark flushed embarrassingly and had to move away, but nothing could stop him from turning into Bruce’s palm for the barest of seconds. Bruce had a way of looking at you like you were the most important person in the world. It was enough to make Men of Steel buckle and probably why he was such a hit at parties. It left Clark frazzled at his own presumptiousness. Nearly die with a guy and suddenly he thought Bruce was coming on to him or something.

Mr. Wayne, not Bruce. They weren’t exactly friends now were they. Different worlds, Clark was reminded. God he hoped He wasn’t going to do something rich and eccentric, like hire a psychic.

“Just tell me one thing,” he asked softly. “What did you do with the kryptonite?”

-

Clark was adorable. There were no two ways about it and Bruce pulled back after his gambit succeeded even though he wanted to see if he could get the man a brighter shade of red. Maybe another day when he hadn’t just been kidnapped and threatened.

“That green rock? I had Alfred dispose of it in the trash compactor… Provably on it’s way to the dump in little dusty pieces… Come to think of it, do you think it was radioactive? I had that thing in my pocket.. Hope I didn’t destroy my chances at-” Bruce looked directly at Clark as he said the last bit, “-producing an heir…” there was the tiniest smirk on his face, just enough for someone astute enough to pick up on the cheeky flirtation.

-

“I- Uh. _Oh God.”_  Clark grumbled under his breath, scrubbing his face to hide a smile, but the tips of his ears darkened a furious red. It dipped down his collar, hidden beneath Bruce’s pajamas, an he had to fight to keep his attention focused. Sure, there was probably kryptonite dust in the wind now, but that was as good as it was going to get.

“I’m sure you and your - I mean. I’m sure you’ll be fine, Mr. Wayne. There haven’t been any reports about kryptonite causing anything in humans.” He tried to say with the most professionalism he could muster, and Clark ducked his head, squinting his eyes as he wiped his glasses on the hem of his shirt. “I should probably get going, but… Just be careful, okay?”

-

A darker shade of red achieved, but now Bruce wanted to know just how far down it went below the collar. He tried to stop his amused grin at Clark’s flustered words and only half succeeded. It was obvious he was trying to keep things professional and Bruce was the asshole not giving him an inch of leeway. He almost felt bad for doing it. Almost.

“That’s a relief!” he smiled wider and lightly patted Clark’s thigh before standing and moving to the closet to pull out his suit, “I believe Alfred pressed this for you…and he’ll be more than happy to get you a car to take you back to Metropolis… You take care of yourself, Clark…”

Bruce laid the suit on the end of the bed and started to leave the room. He had much to do, the kryptonite wouldn’t research itself and he needed to figure out a game plan with Mannheim now that he was on the outs. He needed a back in and quick.


	6. The Swindle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bruce fakes out Mannheim and everyone's in peril.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is co-written with the lovely sonxfkrypton on tumblr. I'm doyoubleedxyouwill :) I put a little - between each section to delineate where each wrote. Hopefully I didn't mess it up.

Bruno Mannheim was beside himself. Not only had t hey never gotten the confrontation with Superman that he’d so painstakingly prepared for, but their hostages (their useless, feeble hostages who didn’t have enough brain cells combined to rub together) had escaped. It was only a matter of time until the police, the press, or worse, those fucking capes got wind of what happened. His men had been on high alert ever since the bastards had slipped through his fingers. Every connection he had at Gotham PD was on high alert, as were a few well-placed snitches within their Metropolis counterpart. 

He needed to get his hands on his estranged partner as soon as possible, and was willing to risk a trip to Wayne Manor to do so. So when news reached his ears that Wayne was planning to leave his home, he thought his bumbling target had made just the mistake Mannheim was ready to exploit.

Armed with more of Strange’s compound, and a willingness to sacrifice every one of his pawns to get the job done, Mannheim set out. Wayne’s security was laughable. It looked like just him and an old butler lived in the home, and whatever transport service he called at a given time.

It was just a matter of replacing the driver once Wayne had made a request for a ride. It was only a matter of time before _Brucie_  was back.

The pick up went without a hitch.  Wayne Manor was so far out of the city, they would have a plethora of places to stop without any witnesses, so when Mannheim’s thug stopped on a quiet road, Wayne got no warning. Then the back door was ripped open and two men wrestled Wayne to his knees so they could administer an injection of the drug that kept him so agreeable.

-

The compound that Mannheim had used on him was ingenious and Bruce was in awe of it’s power. It had taken him quiet a while to deconstruct the serum, sequencing it’s DNA to figure out a cure or, at the very least, something to block it’s effectiveness. It worked on the brain’s inferior posterior parietal cortex, a small part of the brain that controlled intent. It was certainly a pioneering formula, he’d never seen the likes of it before and knew of no researchers who were looking into that sort of control. 

Once he had the DNA sequenced, it was only a few hours before he had formulated a vaccination for the drug. It would bind to the unique receptor sites on the serum thus inhibiting it’s ability to bind to the neurotransmitters in the cortex and making it useless and inert. He inoculated himself and Alfred - just in case -  and started spreading a rumour with an anonymous email to a gossip rag that he was going on another of his week-long trips, knowing that Mannheim wouldn’t be able to pass up the opportunity to attempt to get him back. 

Plans made, boat prepped, car called, Bruce said goodbye to Alfred and vaguely wondered where Mannheim would try to attack. He, personally, would have waited until they were out at sea and he was “passed out after a night of drinking” but he had planned for other contingencies as well. Whatever happened, he had to actually let it happen, it was imperative that Mannheim think he had control back so he could get deeper, find more information on the grander scheme that was going on. 

When the car pulled over, Bruce took a deep breath and tried to prepare himself for whatever was coming. The door was jerked open and he made the appropriate curses and questions and phrases as he was pulled out without ceremony. He made sure to land one good punch, just out of spite, but let himself be subdued, struggling wildly as they shot him up with the serum.

“God, dammit, let me go! Don’t touch me, how dare yo-ow! Stop! Stop!! What are you…” His protests were cut off by a sudden overwhelming dizziness and he didn’t have to fake slumping to the ground, barely able to keep his eyes open, “Stop…” he murmured once more as another car pulled up and Mannheim himself got out, chuckling cruelly as Bruce groaned. Though the serum would be ineffective in giving Mannheim control over him, the other side effects would still have to run their course.

-

“Oh Brucie.” For a moment, the exasperation in Mannheim’s tone just bordered fond.  Then he kicked hard at Bruce’s stomach, penny loafers burying in his gut. It almost looked like Mannheim thought he’d be content with one, but then he couldn’t stop, laying into Bruce again and again, anything to punish the good-for-nothing asshole who so nearly derailed all his plans. His mouth twisted in a vicious snarl as he took out every frustration he’d kept so tightly leashed on his worthless business partner.

“Nothing s going to stand in my way, not the police, not aliens in tights, not even _you.”_

He was breathing hard when he pulled away, and dabbed his brow almost primly with the handkerchief square in his breast pocket. “Now tell me you’re glad to see me.”

-

Bruce didn’t want to pass out again and he struggled to push himself up to his hands a knees, his arms shaking like he’d just done 200 push ups. Gritting his teeth and focusing on staying conscious, he wasn’t prepared for the kick to the gut and he went down, elbows giving out, as he made a pained noise and struggled for breath. The second kick had him on his side and the rest all he was able to do was try and curl in on himself to protect his belly.

When Mannheim finally stopped Bruce was gasping for air, barely able to move the pain was so sharp in his middle and his head buzzed with the serum, white noise, and his thudding heart beat. The last thing he wanted to do was speak but he was still cognizant of the plan and he licked his lips, brow furrowed deeply, to get the words out.

“I’m… glad to… see you….” his words were breathless which was a blessing because Bruce knew his tone would be difficult to control at this point. “I’m…. nnghh…." 

-

Mannheim patted Bruce’s head, the way he would have done with a particularly clever mutt. When he spoke again, he almost sounded calm, his mercurial mood temporarily soothed with another man’s shame. “This is why I keep you around, Brucie. You’re a real classy bitch. Now tell me, have you and that reporter gone babbling to the police? Tell me who you told about today’s little adventure.”

-

Every ounce of will power was mustered to keep from jerking his head away from Mannheim’s hand and it took Bruce a moment to be able to answer.

“N-nothing… nothing…. no cops, only Alfred knows… just Alfred.” Clark hadn’t run the story yet, he wasn’t sure why, but for now it was the truth. 

-

Mannheim exhaled deeply, visibly relaxing. “Good… Good. You’re screwing up my time line, Brucie. You’re lucky I’m keeping you around after all this trouble, but maybe I’m growing to like you.” 

Having an _in_  with the glitterati of Gotham City didn’t hurt either. 

“Now listen to me very carefully, son. I have an important job for you to do. Tomorrow night, you’re going to crash Veronica Vreeland’s summer bash. That should be easy enough. You two are old pals.” Or so said the gossip columns. In Mannheim’s expert opinion, if Bruce hadn’t fucked the broad at least once by now, he was an even bigger idiot than he thought. “And you’re going to make sure that you and all your friends have a good taste of this.

He held up a small canister of pills in front of Bruce’s face before tucking it into his shirt pocket. “Understood?”

-

At least two ribs were cracked and the bruising would be extensive, every breath hurt, every little movement. Bruce was glad his face was screwed into a permanent grimace so he didnt have to pretend to smile at Mannheim’s revelation that he liked him and the shudder that ram through him - hurting like hell as it did - could be written off as pain instead of disgust.

He turned his head just enough to look at the mob boss through half-closed eyes paying attention to his words. Veronica’s party was exclusive, all the movers and shakers would be there, and Bruce didn’t understand why he wanted him there of all places until the pill bottle came into view. So that was the plan.

He gave a small nod to his head and slowly rolled onto his back with a groan. “Veronica’s party… make sure everyone takes…” Christ the pain was ridiculous, “Make sure everyone takes one….” He needed to get back to the mansion rework his plan, and make more vaccine. If he could get everyone vaccined before taking the pills, the side effects would give him some time, making Mannheim think that he’d done what he was told. 

-

“Good boy,” Mannheim drawled, quietly deciding that he rather liked his pet billionaire like this. Hoping on one foot was one thing. Making him do that while looking this miserable had charm all on its own. “You’re a play boy. Show all your friends how to have a good time.” He scoffed, but the look he gave Bruce was quietly assessing. “What made you break out of my hold today?”

Bruce swallowed hard and tried to think past the pain, it was getting more difficult as the serum went through him playing havoc with his system. He gave himself a moment, again, wrapping his arms arpund his middle with his eyes closed, brow still deeply furrowed.

“Kent… he…. Clark wasn’t… he was sick or… something… I was worried…” keeping tot he truth was easy enough but he wasnt sure what Mannheim would do with that information. 

-

Mannheim scowled, wondering if it was simple good-will towards men or if Kent was more trouble than he was worth. Or perhaps, it was a simple case of a low dosage. Either way, he was done playing games. 

“Okay Brucie, get up.” He said, far more solemn then he had been, almost like he planned on chastising his willful brat. “You’re going to take that car back home, and when you see Alfred, you’re going to bash his brains in with the heaviest thing you can find, understood? Good boy.”

He patted Bruce on the cheek, before gesturing for him to return to his car. Then he turned to one of his men, as they all prepared to leave, and ordered, “Find Kent. Kill him. I don’t want them to find the body until Christmas.”

-

It took Bruce a few seconds to roll onto his side and a few more to push himself up to his hands and knees. Once on all fours, he rested, head hanging down, breathing not as laboured as he felt since he was taking shorter breaths, not wanting to jostle his ribs. One of the guards got impatient and grabbed Bruce’s arm, hauling him up and ignoring the cry of pain as he held him up standing.

This time he pulled his head away from Mannheim’s hand, lip curling into a silent snarl though he ended with a nod to indicate he would do as he was told.

With a grunt, he ended up on the floor of the car and couldn’t get himself up onto the seat to sit properly. The driver stopped at the front door and got out, pulling Bruce out by his scruff and shoving him at the front door. He tripped over a step and landed hard, only his extensive training kept him from face-planting right into the door, managing to get his arm up just in time. As the car sped away, the door opened and Alfred gasped at the sight, quickly getting Bruce inside and to the same spare room where they had kept Clark.


	7. Priorities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Batman goes to warn Clark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is co-written with the lovely sonxfkrypton on tumblr. I'm doyoubleedxyouwill :) I put a little - between each section to delineate where each wrote. 
> 
> We are so pleased at the responses from everyone!! Thank you so much :D 
> 
> More comments are welcomed and encouraged! <3

Bruce didn’t stay long in bed despite Alfred’s protests. Clark was in danger and he couldn’t in good conscience lounge about while he was, cracked ribs or not. Taking a shot of special blend of pain killers, he suited up and headed out, the batmobile gunning through the streets of Gotham on the way to Metropolis. At this time of day Clark would just be getting home from work, unless he was working late, which meant he would be safe. If he was around co-workers, Mannheim’s men probably wouldn’t try and take him. It made more sense to do it at his home. His very ill-protected home. 

“Bloody Metropolis…” Bruce muttered as he parked in an alley two blocks over from Clark’s and made his way to the roof to get a good vantage point. From here, he could see Clark’s road clearly in both directions as well as the front door to the building. However Clark came home, Bruce would be sure to see him. 

The throb in his ribs was muted but still present, the drugs doing as much as they could without incapacitating Bruce in other ways. Thankfully, the side effects of Mannheim’s serum wore off quicker this time and he didn’t seem to be having heart problems. He had his shot of adrenaline handy, just in case, he couldn’t let his own weaknesses compromise Clark’s safety.

Scanning every car that drove by, Bruce waited and grew impatient, “Come on, Clark, where the hell are you?”

-

Clark Kent was having a very busy day. Not only had been kidnapped at the most inconvenient time, but he’d made the most inconvenient deal with an equally inconvenient devil, one that halted the scoop of the week (the century was stretching it a little). Bruce Wayne claimed he needed to be able to speak with the police without the rest or Metropolis PD hounding him. Good cops in Gotham were in such short supply, he claimed he needed to be able to talk to them unhindered, and Clark had been willing to hold his pen, so to speak, for the next 18 hours. He suspected it had less to do wit courtesy and more to do with how Bruce’s rakish snarl felt like a punch to the gut. 

Really, Clark was terribly disappointed in himself and his lack of journalistic integrity. He did, however, have the chance to follow up on a lead and determined what he’d already suspected earlier. Mannheim’s new operation was almost entirely detached from Metropolis. Clark found more chemical shipments baring Mannheim’s professional touch, but nothing like the diluted compounds they’d first discovered. 

It didn’t help to know that he’d need to make a trip back to Gotham eventually, but tonight, it looked like Gotham had found him. Clark Kent never made it home.

While Batman scanned the streets, Superman descended from the Heavens, his features studiously blank as he blatantly examined the vigilante to hide how much it unnerved him to find him so close to home. “What are you doing here?”

-

The typical Batman scowl didn’t waver when a familiar voice spoke to Bruce and he was glad that his cowl hid his glare. Of course Superman would find him but he’d hoped to have at least a few minutes with Clark before either Mannheim’s men or the cape showed up. Even though it was nothing close to a date or no where near an ideal situation, Bruce wanted to learn more about the man behind the byline with the satisfying blush and the dorky jokes. Now, he wouldn’t get that chance.

“I got a tip,” Batman started, not moving from his perch on the ledge of the building, not wanting the movement to flare up the pain in his torso, “Clark Kent is in danger, Bruno Mannheim’s men are after him and they’ve been told to take him out. Kent is a reporter at the Daily Planet and he lives there.” he finished with a little nod towards Clark’s building. 

-

“Clark Kent.” Superman replied pointedly, momentarily glad that he was the only one in the vicinity with super hearing, because his heart was hammering inhis chest. He turned towards his own apartment building, did a quick sweep of all of it with x-ray vision, and found it, for the moment, quiet. Still, it was less than convenient to know that he was going to need to think up an escape route against a hired gun. Maybe even two, if Mannheim really didn’t like him.

“I can take it from here.” Superman replied stiffly. “ _Leave_.”

-

Batman watched Superman turn to the building, presumably to scan it for baddies with his x-ray vision, and tilted his head to the side ever so slightly. His eye brow quirked up at the command to leave and he snorted out the word hard which was not good for his ribs. 

“ _Leave?_ ” he managed to temper the wince, shifting his weight to get things back into a decent position, “I’m not going anywhere until he’s safe and secure.” the underlying implication being that Superman wouldn’t be able to do the job himself, “He’s in too deep and I’m going to make damn sure that he isn’t caught in the cross-fire.”

-

“I said I would handle it,” Superman snapped, more peeved than he would have been than he would have been if Batman had fixated on any other reporter in the city, or even a month ago, when Batman was more of an unknown quantity. Professional pride was one thing, but Superman wouldn’t have turned down an offer of assistance, no matter how pompously it was delivered. The fact that it was Batman put everything out of sync. “What’s your deal with Kent, anyway?”

-

Bruce tried to bite his tongue, tried not to say the things that were running through his head, their relationship was tenuous at best but Batman couldn’t help himself. Superman could be a good ally to have but there were still so many red flags, too many for him to just ignore. He stood up quickly, flinching ever so slightly at the stab of pain it caused, and pointed at Superman, “You’re going to handle it? Like you handled Zod? What, you’re going to destroy Clark’s apartment, kill his neighbours, and take out a few more buildings in the process? He doesn’t _need_ your help. _I’ve_ got it under control.” Batman left out the rest, Superman didn’t need to know what ‘his deal was’ with Kent and that was final. 

-

Superman bristled, impossible power building in the palm of his hands, and in that moment, it was easy to see why so many were willing to call him a God, and just as many were willing to damn him as the Devil incarnate. It would be so easy to make excuses. He could think of thousands. They died for the greater good. He was trying to stop the destruction of the entire world. There was nothing he could do. There was only one of him. Yet if Superman started believing excuses, there was no telling when he would stop making them.

“I can monitor his home without needing to be in the same block, without anyone wondering what I’m doing in town. It’s the more strategic choice.” He reasoned, but his shoulders lowered a fraction. It was almost funny, he thought, that Clark was on a first-name basis with Batman. He moved as if to fly away, only to stop at the last moment.

“I think about them, the 1,827 of them. The 213 in Kansas. Two-thousand and ninety two in Goa. Nine-hundred fifty one in Cairo… I know their names. I know their faces. Perhaps not as often as their families do, or even you, but I will never forget them.” Superman said. “Go home, Dark Knight, and we can both pretend I haven’t noticed your fractured ribs.”

-

Something in the air seemed to electrify, a build up of static around Superman and Batman grit his teeth to force himself to be still. It sent a wave of a chill over his skin despite his suit and in that moment, Bruce was in awe of the sheer power with the alien’s body. He couldn’t argue with Superman’s logic but he still wanted to at least talk to Clark, warn him, and he was about to retort, keep fighting for the right to stay and do so when he continued. Bruce’s heart sunk at Superman’s words, he knew that feeling very well and he felt like a bit of a prick for holding a grudge when he himself had people he hadn’t been able to save in his past as well. Not as many as Superman, but if he were blaming the guy like he was, technically all those deaths could be on his own head as well.

“Wait,” the order was serious and quiet as his hand came up to rest over his injured ribs protectively, “It’s a mistake to think that you can save them all… there are always going to be… ones that slip through our fingers. Remember them, yes, but don’t dwell on it or you’ll burn out…”

There was a way to control Superman now, even though he didn’t know it, and it gave Bruce comfort knowing he could protect the world from the almost-god if worst came to worst. Hopefully, the worst never came but if Bruce wasn’t careful he might inadvertently push that worst into being. Self-fulfilling prophecies were never a good thing

-

There was a fine line between honoring their memory and obsession. On most days, Superman believed he was doing the right thing and would continue doing so for just that reason, but he was self-aware enough to claim that guilt contributed to some of it. His mission wasn’t penance. It was an honor. There was a balance to strike between guilt and gratitude. When he figured it out, well, maybe he’d write a book. Or something.

He doubted Batman would be interested in hearing that though. Not so much the subject matter, but rather who was giving the lecture. Then again, he couldn’t say. It was difficult to anticipate someone like Batman.

“Be careful, Batman,” he countered, smoothly, with just a hint of wry humor. Superman kept his hopes close to his chest, as fragile as any secret. “Someone might think you cared.”

-

Having an olive branch brushed aside was irritating but Batman couldn’t blame Superman for doing so. He’d been unyielding at Mannheim’s warehouse and though they had parted on good terms, those terms were still unstable at their base. Superman had every right to react the way he did which didn’t make it any easier for Bruce to keep calm. 

“Right.” he finally replied as he stepped back from the ledge, the light pain barely registering on his face, “If anything happens to Clark, I’ll-…” Batman stopped short when a car pulled up in front of Clark’s building, the same car that had brought Mannheim to where they’d drugged and beaten him. “Mannheim’s men.” he crouched again, watching as three men got out and took up posts, one on either end of the block and the other easily breaking into the building, presumably to get into Clark’s apartment. 

“We need to take care of them… I’ll take the one inside, you take the two lookouts.” Batman only needed another moment, just a short minute for the pain to subside before he’d be ready for action. He was kicking himself not bringing another dose of pain medication, knowing the usual meds in his utility belt would be useless.

-

Superman could have sworn he heard the vigilante _growl,_  and despite his best efforts, he felt something like a rock sink to the pit of his stomach. Yet for some reason, Clark had left quite the impression on him. Was it too much to hope that Batman just had an unforgiving sense of humor?

Then it was back to business.

Superman nodded sharply, and then he was off. Mannheim’s men were prepared for him, but they thought they had the element of surprise. They weren’t prepared for the Kryptonian to dive-bomb them out of the air, snagging both of them in his arms and flying them straight to the closest police station. He’d barely lost a handful of minutes, before he was approaching his neighborhood. He touched down a few streets over, after a quick glance at his apartment told him Batman had things under control. 

Still, Superman was a sight to behold as he walked into Clark Kent’s apartment, standing tall and proud and looking incredibly out of place in the dinky apartment. “The MCPD have Mannheim’s men. Need a hand?”

-

Superman was gone almost before the words were out of Batman’s mouth, but he had caught the nod and trusted the man to do what he was asked. The building he had chosen was not only a strategic vantage point with a full view of the street, but it was also taller than Clark’s building which allowed him to glide over with little effort. Though lock on the rooftop door was still a joke and Batman could have been inside in no time, he chose instead to use the fire escape. The lock on Clark’s empty kitchen window was as much of a joke as the roof door and Batman was inside, crouching, listening carefully, pinpointing the goon’s position soon enough. The guy had taken up in the living room and it was easy to get the jump on him as he was expecting someone from the front door and not someone from behind who made no noise. 

The fight could barely be called a fight and Batman had him disoriented and in zip ties in no time flat. He was just tightening the ties when Superman came in, looking like a greek sculpture, his body taking up most of the doorway. He certainly was impressive, Batman had to give him that, but he had no where near the heart and guts of someone like Clark, a mere human who put his life on the line for others. 

“No.” he stated flatly and tightened the strap a little more, just out of spite, “You should take this one to his friends…. Clark will probably be safe for tonight, or until Mannheim hears of his boys in jail…” he paused and his scowl became more pronounced, “I gave the cops those flasks back now it’s your turn, keep Clark safe… if anything happens to him, I swear…” he let the word hang, letting Superman’s imagination fill in the consequences of what Batman would do if his trust was misplaced. 

-

“You have my word that Clark Kent will stay safe.” Superman sounded very official and proper for all of two seconds. Then he ducked his head, and all the compartmentalization in the world couldn’t save him. He hid a smile as best as he could, flattered in the most unexpected ways. It lasted for only a beat, before he straightened. “Though Mr. Kent wasn’t the only one Mannheim abducted today. It’d help to keep an eye on Bruce Wayne. I think we can work well together, Batman.”

Superman approached the barely conscious crook, and lifted into the air like he weighed nothing. He was careful not because of the man’s weight but because of how the stress of flight would affect the would-be murderer. Then he turned his head, made a show of looking around even if he knew exactly what he was looking for.

“I’ll be taking him now… In case you were wondering, Kent has a first aid kit under the sink.” 

-

Batman was watching Superman closely, looking for any sign that he was lying or not going to follow through on his word. He firmly believed the promise that came but didn’t understand that microscopic smile that followed right after. Was Superman making fun of him? Lying? Did he take Batman for a fool? The clarification was sorely needed but instead of making sure of what Superman said, Bruce just assumed he was wanting to work together and thought this was a great opportunity.

“Wayne will be fine.” he assured quietly as he stepped back to make room for Superman to take the goon but the mention of Clark’s first aid kit had him stumped for a moment. Why would he need a first aid kit? He hadn’t gotten cut or scratched in the fight and there was only his ribs, ah, his ribs. 

With a tiny smirk, Batman stepped back towards the kitchen, “Be careful, Superman, someone might think you cared…” and with that, he was gone.

He stayed hidden until Superman left and then took up another post to watch for Clark who still hadn’t returned. He would go back to Gotham as soon as he warned the reporter. Even with Superman watching the man’s back, Batman felt that, in this case, the more Clark knew, the better.

-

With the wind rushing through his ears, Superman almost missed that parting shot. Almost. A surprised bark of laughter escaped him. Batman was a sanctimonious asshole, but maybe, just maybe, this was a gamble that would pay off. Also, Clark very much did care.

He threw on a burst of speed, rushing to drop off his package, and left strict instructions with the Chief of Police to ‘accidentally’ let slip that Mannheim’s men had failed. Superman was certain that the mobster had ears throughout the city, but it didn’t hurt to be safe. Besides, he paraded around in a red cape. Noticeable was his middle name.

But Clark had a meeting to keep. 

A few quick turns, and it was the mild-mannered reporter coming out of the subway station closest to his apartment. He forced himself to keep his pace easy, even though the prospect of seeing the caped crusader again was far too tempting.

Batman was a conundrum wrapped in a mystery and lightly scented with the personality of a crotchety grandfather, but for some reason he liked Clark, enough to stake out his apartment, and that was flattering enough to make him smile. He made sure his glasses were on slanted and his hair back in place before entering his apartment. But when he found it empty, a quiet disappointment crept in.

-

Batman caught sight of Clark a meters out of the subway and a quick scan of the area showed no more of Mannheim’s men had come while he and Superman had been inside. He indulged himself a little, watching the way Clark moved, pursing his lips at his crooked glasses - didn’t he _notice_ that?? - and feeling the sudden urge to fix the man’s tousled hair.

He waited long enough for Clark to get inside and then went back into his apartment the same way as before, seeming to appear from nowhere at the reporter’s side. “Mr. Kent…” he started quietly, knowing it would probably scare Clark that he was there. He felt a little bad scaring people but it helped build and keep his reputation and, if he were being entirely honest, it was a bit fun as well. People did the strangest things when they were spooked.

-

There was a rustle of fabric, and then suddenly Clark was forced to face all the reasons this was a terrible idea. 

“Jesus fuck-” He jolted, dropping the bag Bruce had fought so hard to regain. It landed with a satisfying thunk, and he cringed into himself.

Without Superman’s impeccable posture, Batman looked like he towered over him, and Clark was certain that every dumb risk he took was going to be dragged out into the open. As he stared into the unflinching gaze of Batman’s mask, cowering on the spot like easy prey, he was certain his impudence would come back to bite him in the ass. What was he thinking!? Batman would know. Batman would see through everything, and his only excuse would be how desperately he wanted the vigilante’s approval in a moment of weakness. He swallowed thickly. 

“Bat- Batman.” He said, pausing, and forcing himself to start again. “In my defense, I would have liked to leave Gotham earlier than I was allowed to.”

-

It was spectacularly satisfying, on a primal level, to get that reaction from Clark. Almost as good as getting him to blush. It made Bruce wonder how he would react in other situations. Other more intimate situations.

“Mr. Wayne filled me in on your visit.“ he stated flatly, "Are you injured?” Bruce wanted to make sure the guy was okay before giving him the bad news, something he wasn’t in the habit of doing with other people he dealt with from behind rhe cowl. With Clark, however, things were different and he needed to know.

Whatever Mannheim had planned, Bruce was going to make sure that Clark was kept safe.

-

Clark had the good sense to look abashed, except Batman had brought up something that had been bothering him. There were some things - many things, actually - that Clark Kent could get away with saying that Superman couldn’t. This one felt like a low blow, even to him, but he couldn’t quite keep it in. “I’m okay. I can’t say the same about Mr. Wayne.” He said softly. “He’s in over his head, and isn’t there something you can do about that?” Clark had to cringe at how that sounded, but only a little. “Look, if you need proof, he’s your key to taking down Mannheim, but he just… He needs someone to watch his back.”

-

Clark was worried about Bruce. The man got more and more endearing every time he spoke. Batman was careful to keep still, keep his face stone-like with his frown, both not wanting to seem affected by Clark’s words and not wanting any unintended pain from his ribs.

“I’m working with him. You’re putting yourself in danger if you continue to persue Wayne, Mannheim already has a hit out on you for what you did.” he had to make Clark understand the danger, keep him away. With Superman watching over him in Metropolis, he would be safe, but if he stole in to Gotham again without Bruce’s knowledge… it was just unacceptable on every level.

-

Clark sent him a dirty look, one almost out of place for a man who was supposed to be as cowed by the masked vigilante as he was, because there was something difficult to believe about Bruce Wayne teaming up with Batman for anything. On the surface at least. Bruce was far more resourceful than anyone gave him credit for, and so much braver than Clark had ever suspected. It was almost laughable. He was worrying about a man who could buy himself his own army, but then, he was a man who could take down armies.

“I’ll be fine.” He tried to reassure Batman. He reconsidered his words wincing, and added, “Lois has hits put out on her all the time, and she’s okay. Is there just anything about Mannheim you can tell me?”

-

Clark wasn’t getting it, just like he hadn’t heeded his warning to stay away from Gotham and Bruce was sure that he was going to disregard this as well. With a frustrated growl he stepped forward and grabbed the front of the reporter’s shirt and gave him a little shake.

“This isn’t about _Lois_ , this is about keeping you alive. Stay away from Wayne and stay _out_ of Gotham.” his voice snarled out the words as he pulled Clark close to intimidate him more. He had to get it through his adorable but thick skull that this wasn’t a joke.

-

Clark tensed the moment he watched the vigilante approach, and then intentionally let his body go lax in the other man’s grip. He was shaken like a rag doll, hard enough that his glasses nearly fell over and a choked sound caught in the back of his throat. But there were more pressing matters to attend to. Batman warned him to stay away. His timing could be due to the ordeal he and Bruce just survived, or it could be something else entirely. Mannheim might be plotting to make his move.

One of those options was far more appealing than the other. “I understand,” he murmured softly, avoiding the vigilante’s pointed stare and shrinking in on himself in surrender. In that moment, he was sure Batman could see through him, through every lie and half truth. But he hadn’t stopped Clark yet.

-

Bruce was satisfied with Clark’s capitulation. It seemed much more resolute than before and he was 98% sure he’d gotten through. He held him for a moment or two longer than necessary - would chalk it up to an intimidation technique rather than what it really was: another indulgence to have Clark close.

“Good.” came the curt response and Batman shoved Clark back into the closest chair. He used the distraction to disappear, making his way to the batmobile to get home. There was much to do to prepare for the party and no more time for personal hedonism.

-

Clark went down with a yelp, tripping over his own feet and landing heavily on his sofa. Performance art, for the sake of performance. Batman was gone before he’d finished making a fool of himself, and Clark watched the vigilante disappear into the night, gaze intensifying as he tracked his movements with x-ray vision.

This had the potential to cause problems.

It had been arrogance and far too much daring that made Clark play his hand. Now Batman would be watching his apartment, had even stepped foot in it. He’d have to be doubly careful when Superman needed to make an appearance. Worse still, Batman would be actively working against Clark Kent in Gotham. Clark had lost one of his advantages in anonymity. All because he’d wanted a little understanding.

_Reckless._ He thought unhappily, hand coming up to rub across his shoulder, where Batman’s grip had lingered. A dark flush crept up to his ears, and Clark’s mind wandered shamefully to the feel of the vigilante’s breath against his cheek.

Well, on the plus side, it was the first time all day that Clark wasn’t thinking about Bruce Wane.


	8. Double Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things come to a bit of a head at the party and a bad thing happens followed by a good thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to those with bookmarks and subscriptions that got messed up with the name change! Made it so sonxfkrypton can log in as well now :D
> 
> ps: the good thing totally makes up for the bad thing <3

Superman came down hard on Mannheim. Surveillance took time that Superman just didn’t have, and no one ever seemed to believe that the Metropolis’s _Shining Beacon of Hope_ knew how to play dirty when he wanted answers. Interrogations were far simpler when you were forty floors in the air.

Mannheim wasn’t doing anything in Metropolis, but his expansion to Gotham City was picking up speed. His lackeys gave up as much as they could. Superman could identify that components for synthetic drug production were being moved into Gotham, and there was a spike in traffic lately. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough for Superman to suspect that something was going down. It coincided with Bruce Wayne’s refusal to come forward, even after Clark Kent had sent him message after frantic message.

Bruce was almost impossible to find, without flying over Gotham, until Clark turned somewhere he was almost embarrassed not to have checked first. Instagram.

Bruce Wayne never posted anything, but he was tagged in countless pictures, and in the late evening, a new set were uploaded at Veronica Vreeland’s private home. It would have been impossible for most reporters to find a way into one of the most exclusive parties of the season, but most reporters didn’t have super speed.

If all this exploded in his face, Clark mused, at least he had a future in paparazzi work. Then he made a face. 

-

Bruce hit the road running when he got back to the batcave. There was no time to waste when the party was the next night and he had much to do before he arrived. Each message from Clark only drove him to work more quickly, the last thing he wanted was the reporter doing something stupid and the less he knew about what was going on, the better. He made sure to take another round of pain-killers for his ribs so he’d be able to work through the night.

Analysis of the pills Mannheim had given him gave him the formula and he realized it wasn’t the mind-control as he had originally thought but a very addictive synthetic opiate. It was almost disappointing that, after everything they’d been through, all Mannheim turned out to be was a drug pusher looking to create a market in the upper ranks of Gotham. Obviously it was a good thing that it was such a simple plan but still disappointing. 

He substituted the pills for identical-looking placeboes and made sure to make time to get his new suit delivered to his house. Since Alfred was on lockdown, forbidden from leaving the mansion and told to stay away from windows because of Mannheim’s order to Bruce, things were a little more difficult to orchestrate. The butler made sure to hover over Bruce’s shoulder, making sure he didn’t forget anything, including letting Ronnie know that he’d be attending.

Veronica would never say no to Bruce Wayne and he arrived at the party in style, driving his favourite Lamborghini, cocky smile greeting everyone as he stepped out. There were a slew of flashbulbs and the sound of many cell phones taking pictures as Vreeland greeted Bruce with an intimate kiss to the cheek - Gotham’s Favourite Bachelor Finally Taken? - and brought him in to swanky soirée.

Bruce expertly worked the room, the bottle of placeboes in his pocket and a champagne flute filled surreptitiously with ginger ale instead of alcohol. No one would guess he had extra doses of his pain meds in a hidden interior pocket of his suit nor that he was in any pain at all. 

He was genuinely surprised to see Clark, standing in the living room, looking terribly out of place. “Dammit…” he cursed under his breath, smile faltering slightly before it was plastered back into place as he strode forward and wrapped an arm around Clark’s shoulder, “Clark… I don’t believe you’re supposed to be here…” his tone was jovial, as if here were talking about the canapés or Veronica’s dress.

-

That infuriating man.

Bruno Mannheim was still at large and would be making a move against Gotham at any minute now, and Bruce emerged from the depths of wherever the rich and idle disappeared to for a party. Clark had no idea how Bruce Wayne was a real person! He’d almost been relieved that Bruce had been keeping a low profile, in between being fearing that Bruce had died somewhere and worrying that Batman had whisked him off to the Himalayas to hide under a rock. 

“Yes.” Clark said, crisp and sharp and a little too gruff. Like the arm around Bruce’s waist, it was a little too strong for a mild-mannered reporter, but he was running out of patience. Using inhuman strength, he nudged Bruce against him, making their hips bump and intentionally keeping the other man off balance. It’d be easier to explain how easily he could move him in the morning, assuming Bruce remembered any of this. “Neither are you.”

He steered Bruce through the crowds, towards a quiet corridor, all the while looking out for Mannheim’s flunkeys. If he hadn’t been so distracted, he might have been able to focus on the far more dangerous man in his arms. 

Clark had no idea what Batman’s plan of attack was, but he doubted it involved Bruce dance the night away. Crossing Batman was as bad an idea as crossing Mannheim, if not worse. This would be so much simpler, Clark suspected, if he had a way of contacting the mysterious vigilante that didn’t involve a giant spotlight. And if Bruce wasn’t so _infuriating._

Then a terrible thought came to mind.

“Is this. Is this _his_  plan?” Clark asked, expression twisted with concern as he pressed Bruce into the bathroom, looking for a semblance of privacy. With every passing second, it only got worse, shifting with his dawning horror. “Our friend with the pointy ears, is he - are you bait? Are you supposed to draw Mannheim out for him?”

So help him, Clark was going to make Batman pay.

-

Bruce wasn’t expecting Clark to get the upper hand but his ribs put him at a decided disadvantage and when the reporter pulled him close he had to bite back the noise of pain in his throat. The pain didn’t quell his anger at Clark for completely disregarding Batman’s orders when he’d been so sure he’d gotten through to the man. He was as relentless as the bad weather in Gotham though Bruce much preferred the man. 

As he was herded into the bathroom, his hand came up to press against his ribs, trying to put up a buffer between them, mind working overtime to figure out what to do. Superman was definitely fired. He had promised to keep Clark safe and here the reporter was, right at ground zero. Unacceptable on every level though it could perhaps be used in Bruce’s favour if Superman came looking for Clark. That was a mighty big ‘if’ to hang a plan on.

Clark’s concerned tone drew his attention, his eyebrows knitted together tightly. “Bait?” Bruce didn’t understand what Clark was getting at and he shook his head, “I’m not ‘bait’, Clark, you need to _leave_.” he pulled Clark’s hand away from his waist and pushed against his chest to put some space between them, forgetting to take his hand back when he should have, “Do you understand? You have to _go. Now_.” He turned to the window, moving to it and working at opening it as he muttered quietly under his breath, “I’m not letting you be one of the ones _he_ has to remember.”

-

“Are you hurt-” Clark started to say, his brows furrowed with disapproval, but it caught in his throat. His eyes widened sharply, a cold chill settling down his spine. He could feel the blood draining from his features, and yet, he couldn’t look away. His mind spun with a thousand possibilities, but the only people on Earth who could even suspect those implications were safely hidden on a farm in Kansas.

Clark caught Bruce by the wrist. His fingers barely touched the other man’s skin, but his grip was impossibly strong. Bruce never had a chance.

Clark’s gaze flickered downwards, seeing through expensive wool to the bandages that were expertly wrapped around Bruce’s chest. He’d been staring Clark in the face the entire time. “Your ribs. You _asshole_.”

Superman never swore.

-

Bruce had just gotten the window open and was about to pull off the screen when Clark asked if he was okay, not noticing the odd hitch in the reporter’s voice. “I’m fine, just get over here and… Clark? What are you-"

He tried to pull away but found Clark’s grip as solid as rock, his expression fell when he looked at the man’s face, seeing something strange behind his eyes that made him stop mid-sentence. “My… _what?_ I’m not an assho-, well, okay, I _am_ an asshole, but what’s that got to do with my _ribs_? Let me _go_ … you _have_ to get out of here…” he didn’t understand why he couldn’t get his wrist out of Clark’s grip, the usual tactics failing spectacularly leaving him wriggling and pulling like a fish caught on the proverbial hook. 

Maybe Superman had spoken to him or maybe he was angry about not getting the story but whatever it was, it was unimportant and secondary to the primary goal of getting Clark to safety.

-

The answer had been staring him in the eye the entire time, and Clark would have been furious if he could breathe properly. A thousand truths came crashing down, and for the first time, everything seemed to fit with a clarity that left him dizzy. 

But looks could kill, and he was always so careful. His only consolation was that the World’s Greatest Detective hadn’t caught on either.

He took a pointed step back, mouth pinched into an unforgiving line before he straightened his posture, moving into his full height so he could stare Bruce in the eye. He let his diaphragm properly contract, lowering his voice as his chest expanded. Then the glasses came off, tucked easily into his fist, his features slackening with fine muscle control until Superman was standing in Clark Kent’s clothing.

“You owe me an explanation.”

-

Bruce let out an exasperated breath when Clark stepped back, rubbing at his wrist. He was about to lay into the reporter again when everything changed and the world flipped upside down without a single care for Bruce’s nerves. 

As Clark seemed to physically transform, growing taller and bigger right in front of his eyes, it clicked. It clicked and Bruce felt like an idiot for not having seen it sooner. Clark _was_ Superman. All of the conversations he’d had with Clark and Superman made sense, all the dealings with the infuriating reporter and the cape were laid out in perfect order but Bruce didn’t even know where to start.

“I owe _you_ an explanation?” Bruce was incredulous and his anger grew as he drew himself up to his own full height, hands clenched into fists at his sides, “You have been interfering in my mission from the _start_ and you think _I_ owe _you??_ I don’t think so, Clark, that’s not how this is going to g-”

The first explosion cut Bruce off, the house trembling under their feet as the screaming started. “Go! I’ll help get people out…” he shouted at Clark, eyes narrowing as he moved to the door, intent on getting the party-goers out through the window if necessary. 

The second explosion nearly knocked him off his feet, throwing Bruce into the wall as dust from the ceiling rained down onto him. “Shit…” he quickly got his equilibrium back and jerked the door open, one arm in front of his face to protect himself from debris.

If this was Mannheim, this was only the beginning.

-

There was a blur of blue and red, and suddenly, Superman was hovering over Bruce, keeping him blocked from the wall of debris as screams echoed through the hall. The look on Superman’s face was steeped in concern, despite knowing so much better now, and Superman had to tense his jaw, finding it harder to pull away than anyone - Batman especially - needed to know.

He nodded tersely at Batman, before taking to the party. X-ray vision helped him cut through the heavy black smoke, but something wasn’t sitting right with him. He hadn’t been able to spot any of Mannheim’s men coming in. To think he was getting so sloppy was worrying, but now wasn’t the time for that. 

There were dozens upon dozens of frantic heartbeats, and people pouring out of the building in every direction. He had to find the one pulse that was different from the rest, one that wasn’t high on surprise. He never heard it. Instead there was a crackle of crumbling concrete, and Superman diver under a falling pillar, catching it on his two hands as people screamed.

-

This didn’t make sense. Why would Mannheim have tasked Bruce to pass out drugs at a party and then blow it up? Was Mannheim using him as bait for Superman instead of Batman using him as bait for Mannheim? There was no time to figure it out, right now he needed to get people out and the thick smoke was making it hard to see. 

“Bruce!” he turned to the left just as Veronica reached him, her expression horrified.

“Ronnie, you’re okay, thank god…” he took a precious moment to hug her close, keeping her there as he made sure no one was in the small alcove where they were standing, “There’s a way out through the bathroom window, can you make it there?” he barely waited for her confirmation, knowing she was strong enough to handle this as she had been through terrible things in the past, “Good, guide people… as best you can….”

He grabbed whoever he could and directed them to the bathroom, the quickest way out as sirens grew louder despite the din of the chaos around them.

Across the river in Metropolis, a nondescript cube van entered the city from the North and drove through the streets towards a nondescript warehouse. It obeyed every road sign, every stop light, never once going over the speed limit. When it reached the warehouse, the rattle of the commercial-grade garage door echoed through the empty streets and the high-pitched beep of the backup signal made a sort of terrible urban audioscape and, with as little pomp and ceremony as it had come, the van disappeared into the dark depths of the building.

-

The building emptied quickly, with party guests grabbing at each other as they fled the scene. People were crying, confused but thankfully moving in the right direction. Superman tracked their progress, as he drew in a lung full of air. A cooling gust of wind killed the heat, clearing the air of ash and smoke. The dance hall seemed to buckle under the force of the shift, but for a moment, a strange sort of peace settled over what was left of Ronnie Vreeland’s damaged home. 

Superman found Bruce then, hovering out of reach, his features inexpressive and carefully stoic. “The building’s been cleared out, Mr. Wayne. You should stay with the rest of your friends outside,” he said. 

A moment passed between them. It seemed to drag on for eternity, lifetimes lost between them in barely a second as Superman learned to see the man before him in a new light. His expression never shifted when he said, “Should they ask, inform the police I’m pursuing a suspect through the east wing of the estate. Batman should hear about that as well.”

-

The people milled around the driveway and front lawn, taking care of each other as a fire truck and two ambulances pulled up. Bruce made sure Ronnie was in good hands and when he turned, Superman - _Clark_ \- was there hovering. 

There were so many things that Bruce wanted to say, needed to say, but it wasn’t possible in front of the crowd. He liked to think back to that moment, later in life, and imagine the conversation that took place with just a look. Perhaps he was misremembering things but the possibility was always there and he liked to indulge. 

Nodding lightly, Bruce stepped a little closer, “I’ll make sure they know… _thank you_ , Superman…” as soon as he was able to slip away, he’d make sure to get to the east wing, still standing strong and solid, untouched by the blasts.

He wanted more time but Ronnie called out to him, needing help with a man who’d been injured by some glass and though it pained him, Bruce turned from Superman to tend to his duties. It was certainly no time to get sloppy and ruin his cover or Superman’s for that matter. 

When Bruce was finally able to get away after a particularly eager EMT wanted to make sure that he was a-ok he was still in rescuer-mode but each step he took away from the people and towards Clark it transformed into something like excitement tempered with anxiety over what wpuld happen. He’d wished for super powers when he was young and naive and now he couldn’t help wishing he knew the future. Integrating his experiences with Superman into his experiences with Clark was going to be…. an experiences. Picking up his pace when he entered the house hurrying to make it to the east wing.

-

Mannheim’s men were in catering uniforms, running as quickly as they could through the damaged building. Superman recognized one of them from Clark’s kryptonite-tinged encounter. Besides, hired hands had a distinct look around them. It took Superman a second to realize their targets weren’t the driveway, where they might have had a chance at disappearing in the crowds (a small one, but a chance nonetheless). Instead, they were heading for the helipad in Ms. Vreeland’s backyard, where one of the wealthy oil baron’s still had her helicopter parked and ready to fly.

Superman was just faster than they were, and they didn’t appreciate the reminder. He cut them off a good corridor before they reached their destination, eyes blazing like fire as his cape billowed behind him. The most terrifying thing about Superman was the reminder that he was not of Earth.

“Where’s Mannheim?” He demanded, cold and calm. Not the voice he gave interviews with.

But men, no matter what merit, did not appreciate being cornered. One of Mannheim’s lackeys hurried reached for his gun, but what shot from its barrel was _green._

-

The east wing of Ronnie’s house was the second quickest route to the helipad, the only place Mannheim’s men would go if not the driveway. Bruce remembered seeing a chopper back there when he arrived, probably Folorunsho Alakija’s, and it was the most logical escape route.

He’d spent his younger days in the Vreeland household and knew all the short cuts to get different places, excellent knowledge to win at tag and hide and seek, and he used this now, ducking into a small walk-through closet that connected to parts of the hallway and stored cleaning supplies. When Bruce burst through the door, he saw Superman, hovering a few inches off the floor right in front of him like an avenging angel, eyes lit up, staring down the men responsible. 

Bruce saw the man telegraph his move, his years of training coming in handy to know exactly what to look for when an opponent was reaching for a weapon. Not having any weapons of his own, he did the only thing he could, his brain instantly wanting to protect Clark at all costs, and he rushed forward to jump in front of him. The fraction of a second that it took, Bruce was reminded by the blue and red uniform that Clark was bulletproof but his resolution didn’t waver, his expression determined and prepared and somehow gentle. The bullet hit his shoulder, biting through flesh and muscle and lodging in his clavicle, the force of it driving him forward against Clark’s chest.

-

Faster than a speeding bullet, the papers said, but they would be disappointed. Superman noticed too much at once, every finite event firing through his thoughts at machine-gun succession. The draining pull of a tell-tale weakness, the rush of a familiar heart beat before the deafening discharge of a gun, the almost comical surprise that twisted across the shooter’s face.

It took _seconds._

A feral snarl cut through the air, sharp with anguish and fury. Superman wouldn’t remember crying out, wouldn’t remember pulling Bruce to his chest or the gentle way he lowered him to the ground. It happened in a blur, in a whisper of careful, moderated strength. People like them weren’t allowed to lose control, but Mannheim’s henchmen never managed another shot. And there was blood on the floor when he was done. 

Superman rushed to Bruce’s side, the human’s unsteady pulse ringing in his ears as deep crimson stained his dress shirt. “Bruce,” he rasped, voice twisted with horror, and in that moment, he couldn’t recognize his own voice. “Bruce, just hold on.”

He lifted Bruce into his arms, cradling him close, and they took to the air.

-

The heat was almost worse than the pain and all Bruce wanted to do was lay his head on Clark’s shoulder so he could sleep. The noise would never allow it and he wasn’t sure exactly what it was he was hearing. It sounded like blood rushing past his ears but it was outside of himself as well and it was all forgotten as he was wrapped up in strong arms - a blessing since his legs seemed to have given up on him - and set so gently on the floor. 

More noise surrounded him but he couldn’t see what was going on and Bruce turned to his training, focusing his mind with laser precision to try and stay conscious and mitigate the pain that throbbed out through his entire body from his shoulder. 

His name sounded strange and he looked up, his own eyes a little glassy, skin pallid with a light sheen of sweat over it and saw the look on Clark’s face. That wasn’t the right look. Clark shouldn’t look like that. Ever. He needed the smile back, or maybe the cute look of indignation when Bruce insulted him, or, better yet, the adorable flush of embarrassment when Bruce flirted. Not horror.

Bruce leaned in and rested his head on Clark’s should like he’d wanted to before, sighing wistfully as the air changed from something sooty and dirty and metallic to something clear and fresh and _Clark_.

“You okay?” he mumbled out as the wind moved across his body, pulling the heat and the pain away, “Cl-… Clark are you… okay?” his eyes started to lose their focus and he blinked hard, trying to get it back so he could see Clark’s face. 

Bruce’s world was very small in that moment, consisting of only himself and Clark and pain. He didn’t notice Wayne Manor coming up quickly and barely registered Alfred’s concerned voice ordering Superman to bring him to the batcave. It didn’t make sense, why was Alfred calling Clark Superman? Though he tried his best to correct his butler, his mumbled words and partial sentences couldn’t convey the idea properly.

-

At a thousandth of a second, they were racing through the Gotham skies. Superman could barely keep focus, carefully hunched over Bruce’s trembling form, and he could have screamed because the only thing that Bruce cared about now, after he’d been _shot_  was if Clark was okay.

He listened as pain stole away the only person who could empathize with him. The only person who knew him.

They didn’t crash through Wayne Manor, but it was a close thing. 

“Pennyworth!” He roared, but he needn’t have worried. The butler had a shotgun trained on him almost as soon as he touched ground. Superman almost didn’t care. Lead. It was everywhere, not in the house proper, but in select walls, carefully shielding what he could only assume were more passages. How could he have been so blind? Everything had been laid out before him, and now he might be too late!

No.

Not again.

Clark couldn’t do this again.

“Help him,” he demanded. “I know who he is. He took a kryptonite bullet to the chest. _Help him!”_

He heard the butler’s pulse race, but Alfred appeared unflappable as ever. There was a medical wing under the house, and Superman didn’t have the chance to truly appreciate the extent of Batman’s preparations. All too soon, they were strapping Bruce down on an examination table. The lights were too bright, and this was no longer a job for Superman.

Time slowed, falling away until all that mattered was the feeble twitch of Bruce’s heart beat, a fraction of a second behind the machines that beeped with it. For a long time, Superman was alone with that faint, unsteady rhythm, achingly fragile despite the bravery and heroism of the man it belonged to.

Until it wasn’t. 

When Bruce woke up, he was still in his underground lair, his body carefully mended, and held together by stitches and gauze. He wasn’t alone.

“Nice cave you have here.”

-

The pain and the heat had thankfully been dulled by pain medication dripping from an IV bag into Bruce’s wrist. For a moment he was confused and disoriented but the voice that had been in his head while he had slept, spoke and he turned his head, the movement pulling lightly at the stitches in his skin.

“Clark…” Bruce’s voice cracked and he paused to clear his throat to start again, “Clark… are you okay?” 

All of the questions and discombobulation seemed worse because of the cotton that Alfred had appeared to stuff into his head and it was difficult to keep his thoughts straight. He remembered Veronica, the party, Clark, the explosions, and… _Superman_.

Shit.

Superman knew who Batman was… but Batman also knew who Superman was and the understanding of how things had fit together before made even more sense now that Bruce had insight into the bigger picture. Things would be different now but there was potential for the different to be good and not dangerous. He’d never wanted something good for himself in a very long time and he honestly didn’t know if he was stepping over a line with it but somehow he didn’t care. 

Whatever the outcome, whatever way that Clark chose to take this, Bruce would try to fight for what he wanted. He was 99.9% sure that he wouldn’t beg but that 0.1% was undeniable. How far would he have to go remained to be seen, but he steeled himself, body tensing as much as it could with the drugs, preparing for the worst. 

-

Oh his fucking _nerve._

Clark thought he was ready for a meeting with the Bat, but he was dead wrong, when he had the gall to ask that while he was still flat on his back. A rush of emotion overtook him, swallowing him from behind and threatening to drag him in, and before he knew what he was doing, he’d crossed the room to hover by Bruce’s bedside, unaware that his feet weren’t touching the ground.

“You stubborn, thick-headed, willful, obdurate asshole.” He accused in a strangled hiss, his brows furrowed so deeply you could rest a coin between his eyebrows. “What were you _thinking?_ ”

Superman couldn’t lose control. Superman with a temper was dangerous. Clark Kent on the other hand, sometimes forgot, in dire circumstances. He could think of none more dire. “I told you to stay away, you could’ve been-”

He bristled, mouth pinched unhappily, but Clark couldn’t bring himself to touch the other man, not when he was still convinced he would break, his hands just barely grazing Bruce’s arm, but the slightest hint of skin on skin was electric.

-

Clark seemed mad…

Bruce’s brow furrowed a little, one eyebrow quirking up at being called an asshole again. Again. He’d have thought that Clark would have been pleased that he was Batman, to know that there was nothing to worry about, that he was more than able to take care of himself without Superman/the reporter worrying about him. That made more sense, didn’t it? Maybe it was the morphine speaking.

That _look_ again. He was going to have to have a strong word with Clark about not making that face… or at the very least if he felt the urge to make it he needed to talk it out with Bruce so they could mitigate its appearance. Right now, it was _right there_ and he couldn’t stand it anymore.

The pain was shoved back into a small corner in the back of his mind as he reached up his uninjured hand and grabbed hold of the collar of Clark’s uniform, pulling him down while simultaneously pulling himself up. There was no hesitation as he pressed his lips to Clark’s though his hand tightened in case he tried to pull away. The kiss was soft but insistent and Bruce hummed quietly as a delightful warmth spread through him.

He was loathe to break the kiss but the stitches were pulling and he huffed out a breath as he dropped his chin. “Shut up, Clark…” he managed to get out, eyes closed, “Please…”

_-_

_Oh._

His eyes widened, barely comprehending what was laid out before him. It was Batman and Bruce, the vigilante and the billionaire playboy. it was both of them and none of them, but not really because Bruce Wayne was so much more than either, and Clark’s breath hitched in the softest sigh as he gave in. Until one kiss bled into two, with soft lips and teasing tongues. It was sharpened with barely restrained desperation and achingly careful all at once, and Bruce’s pulse, his maddening, resilient pulse rang through his ears, steady and strong all over again. 

Thud-dud

Thud-dud 

_Thud-dud_

Clark was breathing hard when he pulled away, and he slowly pushed the patient back on his cot, distantly delighted that the color had returned to Bruce’s cheeks. He rested his forehead against Bruce’s, gently cupping his cheek with one hand, just like that first night they’d met. “This isn’t over,” he warned with a muted whisper. “You needlessly endanger yourself, and I’m not going to forget it.”

And then he kissed him again.

-

Clark’s breathlessness was beautiful and it was because of _Bruce_. How wonderful and odd that a mere human could affect an alien so thoroughly. Bruce was certainly looking forward to getting him breathless again and again and again. And again. 

For now, though, he needed rest and he didn’t fight to stay up, laying back with a small breath. He leaned into Clark’s hand, a hand that was strong enough to rip a man in half but so gentle and soft against his skin he felt no fear of it. His Clark would never hurt him, not as Clark and certainly not as Superman. Bruce knew this truth as deeply as he knew the truth that he wouldn’t stop giving everything he had to both Gotham _and_ Clark.

His hand, free to move now that he didn’t have to hold Superman close, began a slow survey, feeding Bruce with information. His fingers slid up along the edge of the collar of Superman’s uniform, barely tickling the skin there until they could wrap around the nape of his neck. He could feel the muscles and sinews of Clark’s neck moving as they kissed and he couldn’t help another greedy little hum as he pulled him in to deepen it just a little more.

-

The sharp, _tempting_  drag of teeth across his mouth contrasted so well with the smooth dragged of skilled fingers across his skin, and Clark shuddered in mid-air, trembling all the way down to his toes. Bruce tasted like adrenaline and copper, something hard and chemical, and beneath it all, just him. Just him. And Clark couldn’t believe he knew that.

He pulled away just far enough that he could drag his thumb across the slick wet curve of Bruce’s kiss-bruised lips. So unbelievably pink he couldn’t look away.

If this was one of Bruce’s distraction techniques, Clark had to concede that it was very, very, good, better than anything Superman had in his arsenal certainly.

“Stitches,” he said, but his voice came out as a strangled thing, rough even to his own ears. “Have to be careful of your… stitches.” But even as he spoke, the psionic armor that protected him shifted under Bruce’s fingers, giving way to sensitive flesh before he had the good sense to pull back, clearing his throat. He looked far more like Clark than Superman at that moment. 

-

Bruce tried to follow when Clark moved away but quickly gave up, sinking back into the cot with his lips parted and his eyes heavily lidded. He couldn’t help licking his tongue out to taste Clark’s thumb before pressing a chaste kiss to it, smiling indulgently at the sound of the man’s broken voice. He made a silent pledge to make sure it was broken far, far worse at _least_ a dozen times by the year’s end. 

For now, they had to be careful of his god damn stitches. 

His eyebrow rose when he felt skin beneath his hand instead of fabric but he was too tired to focus on such a trivial thing, not when he was still savouring the feel of their kiss. “We do…” he confirmed quietly, his hand moving to the side of Clark’s neck, fingers still wrapped gently but possessively around his nape, his thumb smoothing lightly over his cheekbone to ground him, “We also need to talk but I’m not sure I’ve the strength for it right now…”

With a lick to his lips that was mostly to tease Clark but partly to increase the taste of the other man in his mouth, Bruce took in a deep breath and let his hand lower to his chest. His own skin missed the feel of Clark almost instantly and he struggled not to reach out again to indulge himself. “Come and s-…”

“Master Wayne, Mr. Kent, I apologize deeply for interrupting, however I must insist on Master Wayne resting…. Perhaps you would be so kind as to reassure our patient that he will be able to take as much time off as necessary to heal before you go?” Alfred looked like he was wearing knickers that were a few sizes too small, Bruce knew he wouldn’t be budged.

“Yes, thank you, Alfred, Clark was just leaving…” Bruce smiled fondly at his butler and then looked at Clark, “Come and see me in a few days, we’ll talk then.” 

Alfred stood there, tense, lips pursed until Superman agreed to Bruce’s terms and left. 

“Master Wayne, do note that I will strap you to that bed if you refuse to rest properly this time. Your bones _need_ to heal.”

“Don’t worry, I have a lot to do that doesn’t need me to move much… bring me my tablet and a protein shake.”

The butler knew his charge as well as his charge knew him and that tone left no discussion. With a beleaguered sigh, he went to do as he was told only _just_ able to stop himself from drugging the shake with a sleep aid. _Just._


	9. Talk It Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bruce and Clark meet to discuss *things* and end up doing *other things*. Alfred is perturbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW, darlings, a bit of really yummy smut in here.

Bruce stayed true to his word as much as humanly possible. Alfred was genuinely surprised at the discipline of the man to stay in bed and rest and heal. A full week passed, nearly every minute that was occupied with Bruce’s research on Mannheim, was absorbed with thoughts and memories of Clark. Alfred hadn’t let Clark back until Bruce was able to get up and move himself to the master bedroom - something he was not pleased with at all - but that day, Clark would come after work so they could talk.

He had a nice, long shower and discussed with Alfred when they would be able to remove the stitches. They figured a few more days at least, but the wound was healing very well and the x-rays showed the bone knitting together properly. If there was one thing he could trust, it was that Alfred wouldn’t let him down and would take care of him when he needed it, no matter how much the butler complained about it.

With his usual set of silk pyjamas, topped off with a finely made house coat and comfortable slippers, Bruce waited for Clark to arrive, busying himself by going over the evidence he’d collected for the fourteenth time. 

-

Throughout the week, a steady stream of evidence poured in, far more detailed than anything the Gotham PD could collect on their own, but that hardly seemed to matter on such an open and shut case. Mannheim was guilty. His men sang for like fat canaries. The evidence at Ronnie’s party, coupled with a few convenient placements of the pill he’d given Bruce had all wrapped up in a pretty package that left the leader of Intergang high and dry. Both Mannheim’s and Bruce’s lawyers were working overtime to keep their names clear, but the Wayne Enterprise legal team had a considerably easier task. Mannheim might not be off the streets for long, but he was going to be out of Gotham, and his operation in Metropolis was going to suffer. 

Superman made sure of it.

The Man of Steel had been apparently absent, limiting his contact with Bruce for his own benefit as well as Bruce’s, though that didn’t mean he was gone, exactly. A certain, terribly loyal butler made sure of it. Clark didn’t think he and Alfred would ever see eye to eye The man’s very station unnerved him, but they had Bruce’s best interests in mind, and enough resources between them to hoodwink an injured bat.

But it wasn’t Superman who floated from the sky on the day they scheduled their meeting. It was Clark Kent who rang the door bell, fresh from Metropolis. The mild-mannered reporter persona was far more sincere than the representation of hope who donned a cape, but even it had been played up and cultivated to serve Clark’s purposes. It wasn’t now. Now it was just him and Bruce and no more masks between them.

“I’m surprised you managed to stay still for so long.” He greeted at the doorway, lingering there like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to enter. 

-

Bruce stood when the doorbell rang, staring intently at the door, waiting for Alfred to show Clark in. He adjusted his house coat nervously, wanting to take his arm out of the sling that immobilized his arm, that urge in direct conflict with his promise to his butler. 

The sight of him, standing in the doorway, almost nervous to enter and starting off with humour, made it difficult for Bruce to keep his expression stoic. His entire demeanour softened, just a touch, as he gestured with his good arm for Clark to come in and sit. On the table was a spread of coffee and various appetizers and finger foods for them to pick at should they wish. 

“I’m surprised you managed to stay away for so long…” he countered lightly but didn’t wait for a reply, “We need to discuss Mannheim, his plan isn’t making sense, we’re missing something. Why would he bother to go to all that trouble to drug me up and send me to that party to get my friends hooked on his new drug, only to blow us up that same night? It’s counter-intuitive and I’ve been going through CCTV footage in both Gotham and Metropolis at the time of the blast and there are a few possibilities that need to be looked into…”

Maybe he was trying to use the Mannheim explosion to delay them talking about what had happened between them, would anyone blame him? Mannheim was more important, their cities and the citizens were more important. Weren’t they? Of course they were. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that, for once in his life, Bruce didn’t know what to say to Clark nor the fact that his heart started racing when he thought of the kiss in a way that wasn’t easy to control despite all his training. That lack of control? Not the least bit in his mind as he plowed on ahead with the case.

-

But he wasn’t surprised.

He settled himself into a seat, drawing a tea cup loser and reaching for the sugar canister with a familiarity drawn of practice. Also, cream. Lots of it. He strategically piled a little saucer with desserts, unintentionally reaching for the brightest looking sweets before settling on a chocolate chip cookie, and that was then that he realized that Bruce wasn’t going to stop. Bruce had hours of data he could go over, and he would probably try to get away with it too.

“This is going to be a problem,” Clark said, cutting through Bruce’s no doubt exceptionally important progress report with a small frown. “If we work together. You getting hurt. It’s very distracting.”

Bruce’s heart was racing, but that was okay, because Clark didn’t feel so bad about his sweaty palms now. He tried for a smile, tried to appear suave and sleek and smooth, except he wasn’t. He never was. “And I do want us to work.”

In every way that mattered.

-

Bruce stopped short, mouth open, not expecting Clark to interrupt him. He carefully closed his mouth and took a slow breath, trying to slow his heart rate down. Maybe it was better to talk about it now rather than later. He certainly didn’t believe himself but he was trying. It was such a 180 from before when he’d just woken up from surgery. He had been so sure, so unmoveable but now… now he’d had too much time to think about it and find so many things that firmly planted dpunt in his head about their whole situation.

“It’s going to happen, Clark, it’s the nature of the work…” his voice was soft, softer than he had expected it to be, and he couldn’t bring himself to return the charming smile he was given, “I want us to… work together as well.”

The addition of one single word changed the meaning of a sentence so significantly. Of course Bruce meant in every way as well but that little hedge ’ together’ to keep his heart safe in case he was wrong was necessary. It was something he couldn’t help. When someone had been alone as long as Bruce had the danger of misreading intentions was high.

-

There was so much emotion in seven little words, and Clark reached out, his hand curling against Bruce’s on the table, fingers stroking along the inside of his wrist. It was almost too much, a spark built of anticipation and concern and disbelief threatening to ignite his nerves. He finally had the chance to see the man behind the masks, to see the full picture of who he was, and Bruce amazed him. What’s more, Clark knew he hadn’t even seen everything yet.

He swallowed thickly, trying to center himself, before asking. “Identities, I’m not… I’m not sure how that’ll work. Clark Kent doesn’t know Bruce Wayne very well.”

He waited a beat. “Though he is sorry about that whole picture thing.”

He didn’t sound sorry. It was an easy enough diversion to work up his nerve before he added in the same, soft tone. “And I don’t think you destroyed the kryptonite.”

-

Watching Clark was like watching the full spectrum of emotion from one end to the other. He was like an open book sometimes, so opposite of Superman with his unusually still face, it was equal parts endearing, charming, and adorable. 

His eyes locked onto Clark’s hand as soon as it moved, tracking it’s movement. The soft caress made Bruce’s heart skip a beat, it was more intimate than he’d realized. Intoxicating. There were now two points of contact with Clark, on Bruce’s leg and his wrist, and he let out a little breath as he nodded to acknowledge Clark’s words. 

Clark was just full of surprises. The ‘picture thing’ comment actually made Bruce snort out a little laugh, the insincere apology lightening the air between them. 

The smile was gone as soon as the kryptonite was brought up.

Bruce wanted to pull away, to put up the walls again, harden himself, protect himself. He wanted to… but he didn’t. Instead, he turned their hands so that they were facing each other so he could trace a small circle into Clark’s palm.

“I didn’t,” he replied quietly, resting his hand down, palm to palm, able to feel the heat from Clark’s hand, “And I can’t, please hear me out, please… I won’t because it’s the right thing to do, there have to be limits. Checks and balances for everyone, accountability, you… you’ve got none except this.. if something were to happen, and I’m _not_ saying it will, I _trust_ you, Clark, but if something were to happen, we need a way to…”

He stopped mid-sentence, eyes dropping to stare at Clark’s chest, his expression extremely dissatisfied. It made sense to him to have that protection but it _was_ a trust thing. The likely-hood of Superman going rogue were very slim, Bruce knew that, but he liked to have contingency plans for his contingency plans. Not only Plans A, B, and C but also D through P as well. Clark wouldn’t understand, why should he? His one weakness would need to be destroyed for this to work and Bruce couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t. 

Pulling his hand away reluctantly, Bruce’s brow furrowed even deeper as he murmured a quiet apology. 

It was over before it had begun. 

-

“This is a purer form of krpytonite. The highest grade observed in the galaxy.” He explained softly. It was perfectly shielded in the confines of its container, but Clark still licked his lips nervously, as if there was some way he could jinx this. “It… Hurts more. Works faster, then the sample Mannheim had.” Clark said, and his heart twisted before he could add, “And the… one Alfred removed. It’s more effective.”

He pushed it across the table, letting it settle between them, given more weight by his declaration. Clark knew he was giving Bruce the means to determine how to purify kryptonite, knew that there were a handful of people around the globe who would and who had killed for the same knowledge, but, well, they weren’t Bruce.

“I think it would be best if Batman had this.” He said evenly. “No matter what happens between us. Because I trust you.”

-

Bruce was fast getting lost in a dangerous spiral down into dark thoughts. He had been foolish to think he could have something normal, something nice, something peaceful. It just wasn’t in his cards. He would have to carry on alone with a new and very powerful enemy a stone’s throw away. 

When Clark spoke, however, everything stopped as Bruce’s eyes snapped up, locking on the box for a second before searching Clark’s face, his own painted with confusion. Purer kryptonite? More effective kryptonite? 

_Because I trust you_

He had been expecting rejection and instead received more trust than he had ever thought possible and it nearly broke him. For a full minute he didn’t know what to say and he reached out hesitantly to pull the box closer, staring at it intently. Such a small, simple box that held so much more significance than it seemed. 

“I…” Bruce started quietly, swallowing hard and looking up into Clark’s eyes with a determined expression, “I will keep this safe…. thank you…”

There was still a chance for them and Bruce reached out again, this time for Clark’s hand, wanting him to know that he meant what he said, “I’ll keep it safe.”

-

Bruce would always be worth it.

And a hopelessly besotted smile broke out across his face.

“I don’t always agree with your methods,” Clark hastened to add, sounding more like Superman in that second, as he tried to tame his racing heart. “But I know you’ll do what’s needed. For all of us.”

It was now or never. His skin tingled where they met, heightened senses daring him to lose himself in Bruce’s touch, his taste, his skin. Trapped as he was, in the face of Bruce’s single-minded focus, it was almost too much to handle, but Clark would do impossible things for this man. He didn’t think he would ever stop.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he warned, leaning closer, pulling Bruce in. “So if you wanna back out, you better hurry.” But it was too late, he could feel the warm caress of Bruce’s lips against his own and he dragged him close, taking and taking as he kissed him open, and finally everything fit just the way it should.

-

Back out? As if Bruce would ever want to back out of Clark’s kiss. He moved easily, gracefully, taking care of his wounded shoulder as their lips met, slipping into Clark’s lap without breaking the kiss, his one good hand freeing itself so he could cup the man’s face. 

The heat between their bodies was intense and Bruce shivered as he leaned in, using leverage to deepen the kiss, licking gently into Clark’s mouth with a hungry purr. He had never felt so utterly at home with someone before, the intimacy seemed to be on every level, physical, emotional, and spiritual and it was an overwhelming feeling of freedom. Belonging. 

Bruce hadn’t felt fear this deep in a very long time.

But he did as he always had with his fears, he faced it head on with the intent to overcome it. It was certainly a big hurdle but Clark was worth it. He was worth a bullet to the chest and _more_ , so much more.

-

_Oh!_

Clark let out a strangled little gasp, eyes widening in surprise before he surrendered, and surrender had never felt so good. Bruce was a comfortable warmth in his lap, one Clark could get used to far too quickly. His arms snaked around Bruce’s waist, hands slowly exploring his broad back, following up the supple curve of his spine before spreading over his shoulder blades. Greedy little noises caught in his throat, encouraging and hopeful as he egged Bruce on. Nipping at his lips, coaxing his way inside into where Bruce was slick and wet. 

Clark let Bruce touch him, demanded it, craved it, arching into him as he worried the other man’s lower lip, and he whispered his name where only Bruce would hear it.

When they pulled away, Clark was bright-eyed and impossibly pleased with himself.

“This was worth every time Alfred told me to stay away.” He said, absolutely shameless, as his fingers plucked at the back of Bruce’s shirt, just enough to lift it up so he could brush against his bare back.

-

Bruce cursed his injury up one side and down the other for limiting him to only one hand while exploring Clark’s body. He let it move where it wanted, never disliking anything that he felt. Soft hair with gentle curl to it, a strong neck, muscular shoulders and back… all the while he was getting his own glorious back rub from hands that ghosted over his clothing.

His name, whispered so quietly like an esoteric prayer, had never sounded so satisfying to his ears and it made goosebumps fan out over his skin. Bruce took a moment to collect himself, looking up at Clark when he joked, the expression on his face completely perfect. _That_ was one of the looks he wanted to see more of. No more of these horrified, distressed expressions. _This_  one made Bruce smile, all the way up.

“It certainly was…” he agreed, his voice a little lower than normal, his hand coming to rest against Clark’s cheek again, his thumb moving slowly over his cheek as he pushed himself forward a bit against the man, encouraged by his hands on his back, “I’ll be having a word with him, though, no more interference in our… in this.” it was a little too soon for him to actually say the word ‘relationship’ and he didn’t want to scare Clark off though it seemed that the other was intent on the same thing.

He allowed himself a few more indulgent kisses, seeing how Clark reacted to a little bit to his lip, every reaction he pulled from the man stored away in his memory for later.

-

A husky growl underscored Bruce’s words, turning them sultry, wicked, and Clark trembled, pressed against his seat. His hands wandered lower, as if on their own accord to settle low on Bruce’s hips, digging into his lower back, just above his ass. He’d never heard Bruce like that, not Bruce Wane with his vapid smile and society laugh. The realization sat in the center of his belly, spreading out and leaving Clark eager with need.

Clark wanted to do so much more than indulge. 

They kissed and kissed, like Clark was trying to memorize the exact feel of his tongue, the subtle shift of his taste when Bruce had him on his tongue. He couldn’t help himself, grinding into the other man just a little, as he kissed down Bruce’s jaw, working his way under that soft robe. His lips wrapped around Bruce’s pulse, sucking hard on warm skin, Clark knew he was going to ruin him.

“It was nice. We had tea on the veranda. Alfred was… was just looking out for you,” he whispered, and it sounded like it came out of nowhere after how much time he’d spent, carelessly marking his Bruce. _His Bruce_. The robe had been pushed back until it hung uselessly at Bruce’s elbows, and Clark liked to think of this as another victory for Superman. 

And now he couldn’t stop smiling.

“I’d have gotten you out of bed.” He admitted, tracing the forming bruise with his fingertips. He watched for reaction with hooded eyes, licking his lips absently. He could still taste sweat on the tip of his tongue. “We shouldn’t. You’re shoulder’s still healing.”

-

Bruce wasn’t a blushing virgin, it had been a while, yes, but he found that the possessiveness of Clark’s hands on him, the way that he moved under him like he couldn’t quite control himself, the way he kissed and sucked down his neck stopping at that one spot that made him shiver with delight had him impatient for more. His eyes closed as his lips parted, head tipping a bit to the side to expose his neck further to whatever Clark desired and he purposefully rolled his hips down to grind against him with a groan.

When Clark stopped sucking a mark into his skin, Bruce frowned and groaned again, this time with disappointment as he dropped his head forward to rest against Clark’s shoulder. He had enjoyed that far too much and it took his brain a moment to fully understand what Clark had actually said. “Wait,” he mumbled, sitting back, brow furrowed in confusion, “You were _here_ and Alfred wouldn’t let you see me?” his confusion turned to something closer to annoyance at his butler’s gall and Clark’s defence of the situation.

The irritation faltered at the feel of fingertips on his skin.

“Shouldn’t… I dont care, Clark, I’ll be fine…” Bruce sighed, already forgetting about Alfred as he leaned in to kiss him gently before nuzzling against him so he could press kisses along hia jaw to his ear, whispering quietly, “I want you,” another roll of his hips as he nipped Clark’s earlobe, “badly…”

-

That wrangled a broken gasp, straight from his throat, and Clark tilted his head back invitingly, his expression crumbling as he rose up to meet the heat of Bruce’s body. Just the tease of friction, the promise of so much more to come burning through his skin. He cursed under his breath, slipping into Kryptonian with fdrunk ease, and his grip tightened around Bruce’s waist, before settling into something easier.

“Stubborn old bat,” Clark hissed between his teeth, but he was grinning, and he knocked his chair backwards as he floated into the air, lunch completely forgotten. He beamed at the man in his arm, kissing the tip of his chin as they hovered somewhere by the second floor, taking a balcony straight into the nearest room.

Clark all but dropped Bruce into the closest bed. He couldn’t say whose it was or who it belonged to, but hen he had Bruce spread out beneath him, he couldn’t give a damn about anything else. “Don’t tear your stitches.” He warned, undoing the first few buttons on his own shirt, before almost absently adding, “It’s been a while since I’ve flown so high in civies.”

-

Bruce snorted as his feet slowly lowered as they both rose up to a bedroom. A guest bedroom but that hardly mattered with the look on Clark’s face. Something like pure joy, a bit of cheekiness. He used the time to explore Clark’s chest a bit, dissatisfied that he couldn’t really get at it fully. His fingers picked at one button, managing to get it undone before he found himself on the bed, looking up.

One eyebrow quirked up and Bruce narrowed his eyes as he watched Clark intently. “Oh?” he asked, not really paying attention to what the other was saying, eyes locked on the tiny bit of skin that was exposed at the base of his throat.

He certainly wasn’t planning on tearing his stitches and he laid back, shifting up a bit so his head was on the pillow. With a saucy smirk, he laid his good hand out to the side and gently moved the injured one into as similar a position as he was able without pain. One head tilt to the side and a little jerk of his chin preceded his dare, “When you’re done undressing yourself, get over here and undress me.”

That would take care of that.

-

Clark wasn’t really listening. He’d found the hem of Bruce’s coat, peeled ti away so he could kiss across the other man’s shoulders. His hands wandered over the smooth silk fabric of his pajamas, mapping out Bruce’s body with reverence. Fingers tracing the dips and lines of his chest, captivated by the coiled strength beneath his touch. Fragile and powerful all at once, there wasn’t anyone like Bruce. No one who could ever come close.

“Rao, look at you,” Clark whispered, almost too himself as he peeled open Bruce’s shirt. The story of a thousand battles and countless years f training was etched into his skin, and Clark followed it with his mouth. Bullet wounds, and stabbings shaped Bruce was well as the methods he’d used to heal himself, backyard first aid sometimes the only thing that kept him alive. He kissed his way down Bruce’s chest, whispering gratitude into the curve of his ribs and tasted the skin down his belly, tongue teasing over Bruce’s naval as he slid down the other man’s pants.

“I just want to touch you.” He whispered, far too earnest as he looked up at Bruce, his glasses lopsided and barely dangling off the tip of his nose. 

-

Bruce had never felt such reverence from a lover before, genuine awe at his scars, each one either a lesson learned, a life saved, or both. His breath hitched in his throat as he moved himself as little as possible to help Clark get his pants off, shifting as his skin jumped from the tickle of Clark’s tongue and lips. 

Breathing heavily, Bruce reached out and took Clark’s glasses off, setting them safely on the bedside table before he was caressing the man’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. With an indulgent smile, he gave the smallest of nods, “Do whatever you wish, handsome… I’ll take my turn with you soon enough… we got time…”

He was nothing if not patient, though he knew that patience would be tested many times over in the coming days. They were _doing_ this, _both_ of them wholehearted and unfeigned, no masks to hide their true feelings, no lies to hide secret identities. Bruce wanted everything all at once, there was so much that he needed but he would be patient. He would be so very patient.

-

Clark caught Bruce before he could slip away, pressing a kiss to the inside of his wrist, tongue caressing where his pulse was strongest before leaning in to catch the inside of his elbow between his teeth. He never stopped being careful.

How did anyone look at this man and not know what he was? A survivor. 

Scars upon scars, skin healed over and broken again, it was the legacy of Bruce’s sacrifice etched into writing. The means of creating a nightmare come to life, the life and soul of the Batman. It filled Clark with respect and longing, all at once, sharpened by the fierce need to protect Bruce, even if he knew he’d never be allowed. Even if he knew that he couldn’t, not if he wanted to be his partner, his equal. But he could take him now, give him everything he wanted and everything Clark wanted to give.

“I’ll hold you to that.” Clark whispered, but his eyes were dark with need, because they could never have enough time. He knew it as certainly as he knew his own heart beat, and he pressed forward, catching Bruce in a filthy, sloppy kiss, as he slipped off his pajamas, and he didn’t stop until Bruce was a frantic mess beneath him. He stroked Bruce with one hand, feeling him harden in his palm before he moved back lower to crouch between his legs.

He threw a wicked smile up at his partner as he bit into the soft tender skin on the inside of his thigh, just over a scar a blade had left behind, slicing through what should have been Bruce’s femoral artery. Clark checked just once to make sure it was okay, x-ray vision as easy as breathing as he laved warm skin with his tongue. 

Bruce was so fucking thick. He took him in one hand, mouthing at his length before swallowing him down and sucking in earnest. His eyes fell shut as his cheeks hollowed out, lost in the heady feel of taste and touch and smell. Bruce was heavy on his tongue, skin like silk as he slid down Clark’s throat. It was sloppy and wet, spit dripping past Clark’s stretched lips and slicking Bruce’s balls and slipping down his taint. Clark touched him there, catching moisture on his fingers as he stroked lower, just beneath Bruce’s entrance.

He pulled off with an obscene pop, his cheeks flushed pink. “Do you like it?” He asked, probing gently against his taut hole. “It’s okay if you don’t.”

-

He found himself trying to anticipate Clark’s moves. The worrying at his wrist, divine in itself, was followed by the unexpected bite to his inner elbow. The skin there was thin and sensitive and the feel of teeth, sharp and hard, there made his heart jump in excitement. It was at that moment that Bruce stopped trying predict and settled back to simply experience.

The kiss, Jesus, Bruce was sure it was never going to end and he certainly didn’t want it to. His good hand did what it could to get Clark closer to him, reaching around, fingers digging into hard, powerful muscles as he moved his body in little ways to help get his pyjama’s off all the way. The feel of Clark’s hand around his quickly growing erection shot a bolt of lust through Bruce’s body that cumulated low in his belly and sat there, throbbing with arousal as Clark moved lower. 

“Oh f-… fuck…. fuck, Clark…” Bruce was breathing heavily as the wet heat of Clark’s mouth finally wrapped around his cock. He didn’t force Clark’s head down but he rested his hand in the other’s hair, fingers gripping tightly like he wanted to control but wouldn’t, “Shit, fuck…..” every inch of him was moving, hips slowly circling when they could, muscles contracting and relaxing like they weren’t sure what they were doing, his thighs shaking as he spread his legs a little more, “Do I… _like_ it?? Jesus, Clark, you’re.. I love it.. your mouth is… fuck, when you’re…” 

Apparently he swore a bit and couldn’t finish full sentences when Clark was between his legs but Bruce was strangely okay with that. 

With a little roll of his hips to push against Clark’s finger, Bruce huffed out a small breath. His own face was flushed, eyes a little glassy with pleasure instead of pain this time, and he licked out over his lips, pulling the bottom in between his teeth. “Can I have more?” he asked, fully aware that he’d told Clark that he could do what he wanted and his voice was a little hesitant in case that was all he was willing to give.

-

Bruce’s voice hitched when he spoke, voice gone husky with need and the sound of it when he said his name went straight to Clark’s cock. He groaned low in his throat, eyes tinged a darker shade of blue that would’ve ended terribly if he was still sixteen, amd Clark leaned in to mouth at the cut of his partner’s hip, tasting salt along the jut of his bone. He wanted to map out every little noise he could drag out of Bruce, and it sent a thrill of possessive delight that had him breathing hard.

“You have to have lube somewhere in this house,” Clark ground out, aiming for teasing and coming off a little desperate, even as he kissed the swollen tip pf Bruce’s dick, catching precum on his tongue and moved lower. He looked up with a guileless smile, unabashedly smug as he worked his fingers in deeper, one at a time but filling Bruce where he was most vulnerable.

“You have to tell me, Bruce.” The command was soft and low, a private conversation for just the two of them and a prelude to when he made Bruce scream. That was a promise. “Tell me what you want. Where you want it.”

He breathed down length of Bruce’s shaft, just the barest prickles of cooling air along sensitive skin as Clark lifted him with ease, using only one hand, like Bruce himself wasn’t a wall of finely crafted muscle. He felt Bruce’s body give way around him, so intimate and supple and Clark dragged his tongue between his fingers, getting Bruce wet.

-

Lube. Fuck.

“Master bedroom ensuite, door straight ahead when you turn left out of this room and then to the right, top drawer on the left hand side of the counter drawers…” Bruce’s instructions were as succinct as he could get them, his voice wavering as Clark continued to tease him, opening him up slowly, “I…”

He had to pause. The cool air was a surprise and he gasped, fingers of his good arm fisting into the covers of the bed, whimpering out a rather pathetic keen at the feel of Clark’s tongue against his entrance. 

“Y-…you… please, I want you…. fuck, Clark, I wanna feel you in me…” the words tumbled out as he pushed his head back into the pillow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alfred’s eye twitched as he heard yet another thump from the second floor and he sighed tiredly. He knew that Clark would be able to hear anything he said but he said it out loud anyway. “I do hope that Master Wayne’s heart is safe… I would quite dislike to have to break out the shotgun again….” 

Though he was worried, he was quite pleased, he hadn’t ever seen Bruce’s face soften like it did when Clark walked into the room and he hoped that they would continue to both work together and build something deeper together.

-

“Master bedroom.” Clark started, head turning towards its direction, staring off into the distance because he could see it. Really he could. He flushed, suddenly embarrassed, and mumbled, “Just a -”

He was back before Bruce could notice, face pressed against his partner’s belly to hide his own embarrassment, a handful of condoms dropped to the bed as well. “I um, I brought those. I’m good to do - _that_ , you know. I don’t get sick or anything, I just don’t know if you do.” He scrubbed a hand down his cheek, expression pinched. “I’m sorry, I normally talk about this before doing - it’s important to talk about this.”

Oh Rao, it had been a while. He’d never fallen for someone so quickly.

And then Clark made a face like he’d been bit into a lemon and groaned, carefully tucking his face back into Bruce’s chest. “And Alfred is concerned about your virtue.”

-

“I…” Clark was back before Bruce could get more than that out, head pressed against his belly, condoms strewn out around them.

Bruce started to laugh. It started quietly, just a little huff of a snort but it was the comment about Alfred that really got him going. There was no malice in his chuckle, only adoration, his heart warming exponentially at Clark’s shy manner. His hand smoothed through Clark’s hair, comforting him, as he tugged at the man to get him to come up so he could kiss him. He could taste a light musky flavour on Clark’s tongue but he didn’t mind at all. 

“Alfred has every right to be concerned…” he chuckled out, hand cupping Clark’s cheek, “I fully intend to get you back between my legs, Clark, darling, and we’re both going to be thoroughly fucked out…”

As Bruce kissed Clark, hard, desperate, and full of promises, groaning loudly, a noise that carried out through the window and down into the room where Alfred was attempting his work. The butler rolled his eyes and headed to the kitchen to prepare a rejuvenating meal for the two men for whenever they would be finished their… whatever they were doing.


End file.
